


The Ineffable Comedy

by teaDragon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Various Demons - Freeform, despite it being actual literal hell, it's really not that dark, just an excuse to get an exclusive tour of the nine circles, loosely based off of Dante's Inferno, lots of dramatic imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: When Aziraphale is tasked with investigating a potential portal to Hell he accidentally sets it off, and finds himself transported all the way down to the Eight Circle. He'll have to navigate all the way up and out, sneaking through each circle and avoiding demonic detection - all before sunrise if he ever wants to get back home. With most of his knowledge of Hell based around the writings of Dante he's about to find out just how closely life imitates art, and if there really is a way out of Hell without divine guidance.Set in bookverse but borrowing a little from tv verse.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic two summers ago and have only gotten around to finishing it now, so while it takes place in the Book verse there are a few influences from TV verse. I'm also playing around very liberally with Dante's Inferno and stitching together a frankenstein amalgamation of Heaven and Hell, so. Apologies to Dante. 
> 
> This isn't a dark story. It's a vessel for dramatic imagery, daring escapades, and watching our favourite angel and demon act under pressure.

ACT I 

It was a warm summer night, the kind that follows a hot city day where the air finally cools but a warm haze from the heat of the day lingers over everything for a few hours after sundown.

Aziraphale had just shut the bookshop door, saying goodbye to Crowley on the step after a lovely night out and a quick nightcap before seeing him off. The pleasant rush of being in his partner’s company fizzed around happily in his chest, made all the better knowing they were going out tomorrow for brunch and a picnic – Crowley insisting to surprise him with the food and the picnic spot.

He cracked open the front window of the shop, careful not to disturb the tchotchkes that lived carefully arranged on the windowsill. A gentle breeze pushed in through the window, lazily stirring the papers strewn throughout the shop. A quick trip to the kitchenette later and the angel settled down with a mug of cocoa in his favourite armchair, daydreaming about his coming rendezvous. 

He was rudely interrupted by a bright light filling the room. It flared outwards before gathering itself into the shape of a glowing dove, divine energies of peace radiating off of it.

_Principality Aziraphale_ came a heavenly voice. 

“Oh bother.” It was one of Gabriel’s messengers.

_What was that?_

“Er,” he coughed. “Hullo brother.”

The dove blinked at him. _We are not brothers_.

“Oh, no. A human greeting, rather.” It was looking at him in a judgmental kind of a way. “How may I help you?” Aziraphale asked, slipping into his customer-dealing-with voice.

_We have an assignment for you._

“Ah. Jolly good.” 

_There is an earth location experiencing unusually high surges of demonic activity. You are to investigate and neutralize the threat._

“What kind of surges?”

The messengers managed to look uncomfortable even as an ethereal floating dove of pure light. _We believe it may be a portal._

“A portal? You mean to,” he lowered his voice, “to Down There?” 

_Possibly._

He gaped. “And I’m to…neutralize it.”

_Find out what it is._

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, relieved. “That should be—“

_And neutralize it._

He opened his mouth.

_If you are unable to do so, inform us of your failure and we will send those better equip should this be the case._

His mouth shut with a snap. Now that was just rude. He huffed. “Eh. Where exactly is this portal?”

_A small island off the coast of Ireland. You will be able to locate it once you are within a range._

“How nice.” He clapped his hands together. “Well! I’d best get my bags packed if I’m to head off—“

_Tonight. It must be done tonight._

Aziraphale spluttered. “But—“

_Before sunrise. This is integral, Aziraphale. You must be finished by sunrise._

“Yes, but why?”

_Tonight_ It said testily. _We will be in touch._

“Right. Cherrio then.” Aziraphale sighed, the last of his pleasant evening dissolving along with the unearthly gust of wind the messenger ascended with. “Bugger.”

It was beastly long way to fly, but if time was of the essence he couldn’t see a better way to go about it. Why did it have to be tonight? Aziraphale grumbled to himself as he finished up the last of his cocoa and prepared himself for his impromptu trip. Ruining a perfectly lovely evening is what they were doing.

Crowley hadn’t mentioned anything about a portal to hell. But Downstairs rarely told him what was going on, rather as Upstairs tended to leave Aziraphale in the dark about things until he stumbled into them. As much as he’d like to have Crowley’s company for this little jaunt he didn’t want to ruin his evening as well. Anyway, if there really were other demons invoked (or heaven forbid, an active portal to Hell) having Crowley there would just make things uncomfortable for the both of them should things go south.

Giving one last mournful look at his armchair, Aziraphale stepped out into the night, closing and locking the bookshop behind him. A quick miracle sent mortal gazes away from him as he spread his wings, a few downy feathers falling loose from a recent molt he hadn’t bothered to preen after. He miracled them into the shop to deal with later. Off he went.

Xxx

On a small island off the coast of Ireland was a cave surrounded by huge rocks and drenched in a thin layer of sea foam. All sorts of things dragged up on the scraggly shore, half buried in silt and bits of old seaweed. Aziraphale touched down, wincing a bit at the wet squelch of silt and sea beneath his oxfords. He made his way cautiously to the middle of the island and an imposing cluster of jagged rocks sticking up out of the earth. It was precarious going, his shoes slipping on slick rocks and half submerged bits of wood and shells and who knew what else.

This felt like the spot. He circled the rocky cluster, finding a narrow opening between two huge rocks.

“Let there be light.”

The bluish glow illuminated the opening. A crude set of stairs was hewn out of the rocks leading down, down, further than he could see. Cautiously he crept closer, putting both hands on the rock and boldly sticking his head inside. His ethereal light was swallowed up, briefly illuminating no more than a foot in front of him.

Peering down into the dark depths below, Aziraphale began to have a Bad Feeling. He wrung his hands and dithered for a good minute.

It was too late to ask Crowley for backup. The poor dear was probably sleeping anyway, no reason to ruin his night as well.

Still. _Still._

They’d survived the apocalypse together. They’d come out about it all, this thing between them, to Heaven and Hell and each other, though it seemed like neither side remembered much of that day and probably for the better. He couldn’t just go gallivanting off entirely without word. Crowley and he were in this together. Always had been really, but it was official now.

Pulling out a sheet of parchment he kept tucked into his waistcoat for just such an occasion, he penned a quick note. 

> _My dear Crowley,_
> 
> _Hullo again dear. I’ve been asked to nip over to Ireland for a spell, bit of a last minute sort of thing, you understand. Something about a portal to Hell, though I have to hope it’s a poor idea of a joke! No need to worry yourself my dear, as I know you tend to. Just a quick look-see is in order and perhaps a speedy deactivation of sorts. Our picnic tomorrow is still very much on! I confess to having much anticipation of just where we are off to and what culinary delights this hamper of yours you’ve been boasting about contains. I know I shall be pleasantly surprised._
> 
> _Only, if you stop by tomorrow and I’m not back, well. You’ll know why. Hoping very much to gripe about this with you over drinks._
> 
> _Aziraphale. Yours. Always._

He looked down at the letter. Was it enough? He hemmed and hawed for a good long minute. His shoes were slowly soaking through with seawater. Eventually he underlined the _Always_ at the end.

It would have to do. 

A quick miracle sent the letter off to Crowley’s flat where it would slip itself under his door and make itself known when the lazy old serpent sauntered out of his bedroom. 

“Righto” he whispered, and ventured inside the cave. 

The thing was, you can avoid clichés all you like but sometimes a foreboding yawning cavern that’s very likely to be a direct line down to Hell really is best described as a Gaping Maw. There’s no way around it. It did very much feel like a living thing, this cave, the narrow walls closing in around, cutting off the crash of the waves. To cap the whole thing off, warm air blew towards him from its depths, bringing a touch of brimstone to his nose. 

No one said Hell’s design team was original. They didn’t have to be. Why not stick with a good thing when you had it? 

The chances of this cave being a spooky but otherwise benign locale were quickly dropping as with each cautious step Aziraphale could feel infernal energizes buzzing around him, claustrophobic to his own ethereal sensibilities. 

Right. No need to dally. Quick in and out he’d told Crowley and that was what he meant to do. A nice cave-in would be just the ticket. 

He’d no more than called on his powers when something snapped, a deadly cackle filling the air with static and sending his nerves on end. All around him red sigils sprang to life, shapes and symbols appearing too quickly for him to make out. He felt a tug deep in his chest, pulling down, down, and then he was falling, darkness swallowing him up. 

ACT II 

Aziraphale was first aware of pressure all around him. Then of the hard uneven surface he was lying on followed by a slow ache all over his body. Not just his corporation, his ethereal self felt like it’d had a bad run-in with a pub. 

Seeing no alternative but to come to and face the music he opened his eyes. It was dark. While such a description is generally unhelpful, this dark was oppressively dark, almost suspiciously so. Not even the little spots and flicks of static colour human corporations liked to pepper into normal darkness were present. This was Pitch Dark, Blackest Black*, Darkest Dark. 

*Somewhere Anish Kapoor twitched, seized with the sudden urge to throw another lawsuit. 

Angels could not see in the dark. They didn’t have to. They were the candle held against the night, the guiding flame through the storm, bright and brilliant with righteous light, banishing away the nightly terrors with the blissful certainty of heaven. That was their whole purpose. They were designed to smite away the darkness, not stumble about blindly in it. 

Upon his regaining consciousness, this ability began to kick in. A soft golden glow gently shone from Aziraphale’s body and wings. He climbed to his feet and peered through the oppressive gloom, fighting back the panic he could feel nipping at him. 

If he’d hoped his innate glow would give him any ground to see by he was sadly mistaken. The darkness did not so much as budge. It felt very much like being a single lit match in the woods at night - not so much illuminating the darkness but advertising to every creeping, hunting, insect-like being ‘here I am!’, and feeling their bulging eyes but being utterly unable to guess what horrid creatures were doing the eyeballing. 

He shivered violently, a dreadful certainty opening up like a pit in his belly. 

If Aziraphale was where he was beginning to suspect he was, glowing like a firefly would be getting him into an awful lot of trouble. At best he could he suppresses it, but that would take some concentration to maintain. Whatever was attracted to his light would be far worse than a moth. 

The darkness pressed in on him from all sides, heavy, suffocating, stronger then anything he’d ever felt. He stumbled around, arms outstretched until he found damp rock wall under his hands. He followed it. To his relief a faint red glow began to creep into what he realized was a tunnel, and he breathed a sigh of relief as his vision began to creep back in. 

One thing that struck Aziraphale was the sound. Vast, rushing, echoing, you couldn’t pin it down, all you knew was that it was everywhere, rumbling all around you. The closer he got to the end of the tunnel, the louder it got, and soon he had a good idea what he would find. 

He cautiously peered out. The tunnel opened into a huge circular cavern. Anything else he may have seen was lost as the suffering of thousands upon thousands of souls hit him all at once. Withdrawing, he pressed a hand to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. Wave after wave of despair crashed into him, his weakened shields picking up everything the poor souls were feeling. 

He was in Hell all right. 

Jolly good. 

He gathered himself, stringing his shields together as best he could, numbing himself to...to all of _that_ as best he could. It had started off as a such a pleasant evening too. 

“Steady on, old boy,” he whispered, trying to take comfort in the familiar sound of his voice. It came out hushed and warbled, a touch too distressed to land. 

What he needed was more information. Hell is a big place and a very vague address when you got right down to it. Shaped like an upside down bell, each circle stacked on top of the other, getting narrower and narrower until the very bottom where the Lowest of all Authorities resides. Heaven naturally is a mirror of Hell – or rather Hell is the invert and Heaven the original - a right-sided bell with the celestial circles stacked atop each other up and up to that most sacred of places. In the middle was Earth sandwiched between the two, existing in the space where Heaven and Hell repelled and attracted each other like magnets. 

Theoretically Aziraphale should be able to look up and see all the way to the heavens should he venture out into the cavern. He must be inside the walls of Hell itself, the bell as it were, and not what was in the center of it.

Gathering himself, Aziraphale again peered out of the tunnel. He was met with the huge vast chasm before him, and across some distance away a wall of water. Up, up it went, further than he could see. Down below was a dark bubbling surface, punctuated with a deep glowing red. A horrible smell wafted past, billowing clouds of hot putrid smoke rising from the deeps. 

Ah. That would be the Malebolge then, the Boiling Lake of Tar. And that would make this the Eight Circle of Hell. 

“Golly.” He paled a little, realizing just how far down he was and how very close he was to…the lowest of all authorities.

Most of Aziraphale’s knowledge of Hell came from a combination of old tomes and Crowley’s drunken ramblings, and together they were enough to tell him that much of Hell had been based around Dante’s writings. Fictional though it was at the time, they had been suitably impressed by his rendering of the place and set straight away to remodeling. Life imitates art and all, and it was poorly kept secret that humans really did have the best material. 

Well. Aziraphale had no heaven-sent Virgil to lead him through all the circles, and he certainly wasn’t about to pop in on the Devil and see if he might be allowed to shimmy on down his fearsome body to drop out the other side of the earth, there’s a chap. 

His best chance was up and out, up eight terrible circles and out past the gate, the river, and back to the mortal plane.

It wasn’t a very good plan, he could admit to himself, but as the portal he’d been so rudely whisked away on had disappeared he couldn’t see another way out. He didn’t have time to think of another. Before sunrise, the messenger had said. It had a ring to it, a feeling of dreadful certainty that told Aziraphale he’d best get a wiggle on and make his escape before the night was through. Already he felt his power weakening, slowly suffocating under the weight of malevolent energy. He didn’t like to think what would happen should he linger.

Best do something about his wings. He doubted any demons were sporting white and glowing gold down here, and as he couldn’t put them away he’d have to disguise them. With a grimace he reached down and scoped up some of the thick sludge off the ground. It was sticky. He made a small distressed sound and smeared it over his wings with a shudder. 

“I’m so sorry about this,” he whispered to them. “I promise once this is all over to get you a nice long bath and all the pampering* you like.” 

*This pampering would not be done by Aziraphale himself but rather by Crowley, who had all but demanded he be given the sole responsibility of their up keeping. Who was Aziraphale to complain?

Disguise in place, it was time to venture out. 

He spread his wings, making a small miserable sound at utterly caked in grime they were, and off he took. He flew out into the chasm soaring high above the tar pits, wings catching the hot and foul updrift, no doubt seeping into his poor coat. 

Aziraphale was quite sure he should follow the waterfall up which would take him to the Seventh Circle. The fastest way there was to fly straight ahead, crossing directly over the tar lake to the falls.

He dithered in the air a moment and swerved, sticking to the wall of the cavern. A longer route yes, but less likely to catch attention from anything below. The wall of the cavern flashed by, marred with great gouges and gaping holes, warren like, as if thousands of massive worms had dug their way out. 

That was not a pleasant thought. Aziraphale began to have a Very Bad Feeling as he passed right by an especially large opening in the rock. Perhaps a more direct approach—

Have you ever seen an eel with its long body tucked up in some hidey-hole, with just the head peering out? Long, toothy mouth slightly agape, watching with wide dead eyes for anything to pass by its alcove, ready to lunge out at the slightest movement to snap up prey? 

Image that, but bigger. Much, much bigger, the size of a train bigger, teeth the length of your arm bigger, and throw in an extra head or two, go on. That will give you a better idea of what Aziraphale was met with when he sped past a hole that wasn’t so dark and empty after all, and rather abruptly made the acquaintance of Geyron, Fearsome Wyrm of the Malebolg.

__Aziraphale just barely managed to fling himself wildly out of the way of a huge toothy mouth snapping down right on him, heart pounding in his chest._ _

__The good news was that Geyron was blind and thankfully not much smarter than your average eel*. The bad news was that to compensate he was imbued with a fantastic sense of smell, had three ghastly heads with long spiky teeth, and at the faintest brush of a passing divine aura, had been whipped up into a blood-lust to Hunt The Angel Down._ _

*The same could be said of a good number of people if we're being frank.

Geyron took a sharp lunge at the angel, all three mouths gaping wide, and that was all Aziraphale bothered to stay and watch before he was off as fast as his wings could take him. He already had a giant three-headed eel demon wailing after him, the time for discretion was past.

__Tucking his wings in he dove sharply, the beast hot on his tail. Cutting as close to the rock face as he dared, the tips of his wings dragged against the surface, hot air from below scorching against his face as he sped down towards the bubbling tar. Principality though he may be, Aziraphale stood no chance in a test of strength against _that_. He was smaller and faster - at least he hoped he was faster - and what was more was that Crowley had made him watch too many action films, and he thought he knew something of how this sort of thing should go. _ _

__The tar pits were coming closer and closer, the beast gaining dangerously on him. Steeling himself, Aziraphale kept course directly down at the blistering heat of the boiling tar, Geyron’s teeth snapping at his heels, just a bit closer, just a few more seconds-_ _

__At the last moment before terrible impact he executed a sharp U-turn up and outward, wings catching the updraft of a particularly thick and putrid plume of smoke and sending him soaring upwards._ _

__Up, up he flew, the high pitched roar from Geyron below telling him his little gamble had gained him some time. He didn’t dare to look down and see if the beast had hit the lake, but something told him the demon guarding a lake of boiling tar would likely be immune to burns from it._ _

__The smoke burned in his lungs and stung his eyes, but he couldn’t stop, not for anything. There was a high-pitched screech. Geyron was gaining again below him, slithering through the air as if it were water, unbothered by the smoke, shaking the hot tar off his scales._ _

__The draft he was riding started to thin, slowing his ascent. Below him Geyron’s mouths gaped wide in anticipation, prey within sight. Aziraphale swerved, narrowly dodging a bite from the middle head, and then the left head as he darted away, flinging himself into another plume. Up he flew, wings filling out as he rode it._ _

__Above he could see the ends of the waterfall, nothing more than a swirling mist this far from the source. He could feel deep within him that up over the top of it was the Seventh Circle. The air started to thin, heat dissipating the further away from the tar pits he climbed, and he realized with a sinking heart that there would be no more helpful drafts to catch and give him a boost. Realizing the same thing, Geyron roared triumphantly, nearly catching Aziraphale’s foot in a vicious bite._ _

__Into the waterfall went the angel, dipping in and out of the crash of it in a dizzying upward spiral. Geyron copied his motion, three heads spinning around and around, snapping at the angel’s heels. He was halfway up. His wings ached and his lungs burned from exertion and tar smoke._ _

__Aziraphale spun in an increasingly tight spiral, Geyron’s huge form copying his maneuver like a streamer, glued to the angel's every move, mouths salivating with the phantom taste of angel, as single minded with fury as a bull after a flag._ _

__He could feel the beast’s breath, hear the teeth gnashing in the air behind him. Aziraphale swooped, turning his upward momentum into a dive over and past Geyron’s mouths, speeding directly at the rock face. Geyron copied him, moving with all the force and certainly of a bullet train, the angel darting into a narrow tunnel in the rock, and Geyron –_ _

SMASH

__Geyron came in like a wreaking ball, crashing all three heads thunderously into the rock face, much much too large to fit into the tunnel. Geyron’s long body followed his heads to hit against the rock in a crumpled heap._ _

__Panting great heavy breaths, Aziraphale frantically beat his wings to slow himself down as he tried to navigate the tunnel. It rumbled around him with the force of Geyron’s fury, pitch black and claustrophobic. He could barely see where he was going but he didn’t dare stop, following the twisting winding passage, hoping beyond hope it didn’t lead to a dead-end - or to the mouth of another massive eel._ _

__Lighter, the passage was getting lighter, and suddenly he felt a kind of static force-field pushing up against him. Gritting his teeth he pushed – and all at once he was through, surfacing into a vast expanse. Around him was a dark hazy forest, and over to his left some ways was a ghastly river of some viscous red steaming liquid, tumbling over the edge into a darkened abyss._ _

Ah, that must be the waterfall he had been drenched with. Lovely.

__A faint shriek filled the air. Geyorn must have un-crumpled himself. Blast. With a jolt, Aziraphale noticed another figure flying over the land some distance away, alerted by Geyron’s racket. He touched down, folding his wings close to his body and forcing his legs to get moving, no matter how much they were shaking and crying out for a good rest and a cup of cocoa._ _

__He crept as quickly and as stealthily as he could into the undergrowth, making for the cover of the trees. And what dreadful trees they were. He could almost see what looked like…faces. In the bark. Limbs, here and there._ _

Oh. Oh dear. The Forest of Suicides.

Aziraphale had made it into the Seventh Circle. 

The angel huddled miserably under a gnarled trunk, hearing the sound of wings passing overhead. Geyron gave another enraged shriek, and with a sinking feeling Aziraphale realized the alarm had been sounded.

He was really in the soup now.

Xxx 

As little as Aziraphale wanted to explore this exciting new circle of Hell, he wasn’t best pleased huddling beside a drooping, decaying, humanoid tree with fleshy bits coming out the bark. One of them had been eyeing him for the past minute and he was stoutly ignoring them in the hopes that if he didn’t make eye contact there wouldn’t have to be any conversation. 

I mean, what would you say? ‘There, there?’ ‘Spiffing bark you’ve got?’ ‘Be a dear and don’t give me away to the circling harpies, there’s a chap?’

__What was really miffing Aziraphale - more than the whole situation in the first place - was the heavy, sticky despair that hung fog-like over the forest. Fitting, but rather overwhelming. Rather disheartening. Despair had a rather nasty effect on angels. It cloistered in his lungs, made his head dizzy and his eyes heavy. Too much of it and he’d start going numb all over like a bad allergic reaction. He had to get a wiggle on while the wiggling was good._ _

__He peered out from his cover, taking in as much of the Seventh Circle as he could see. What Hell was lacking, Aziraphale thought, was proper signage. Something clear and concise. ‘Center for the Forest of Suicides’. ‘Left for the Flaming River of Blood’. ‘Turn Back for a Waterfall and a Bad Time’. ‘North-East for Greco-Roman Archway into the Cliff’._ _

__Oh. Aziraphale stared at the gleaming staircase and the massive pillared archway opening ominously into the rocky wall of Hell. Now that was interesting. Getting into the infrastructure inside the walls of the infernal chasm sounded promising. There were stairs and everything, and where there were stairs, there were passageways and less ‘Rains of Fire and Boulders’ (over to the north-west)._ _

__Path decided, started towards the northern edge of the forest -_ _

__\- And nearly gave himself away to the ‘Up, Circling Harpy’ who had been flying low over the drooping moss of the tree tops._ _

__Fighting down the yelp that threatened to burst from his throat he froze in place, shrinking back against a tree trunk that was distinctly soggy. The harpy soared overhead casting a bored eye over the trees, razor talons glinting threateningly in the dull red glow. She gave a birdlike caw, turned, and buggered off back the way she had come._ _

__Heaving a great put upon sigh, Aziraphale righted himself, using the tree for support. A mushy, droopy face stared back at him out of the bark, eyes dull and distinctly unimpressed._ _

__“Er. Thanks ever so.” He gave the bark a little pat trying not to grimace at the unpleasant texture. The soul stared back at him hollowly._ _

He took that as his cue to make his exit. 

__It only took a minute or two of half-hearted jogging before Aziraphale made it to the northern edge of the forest, keeping an eye on the skies for any more harpies. Between the forest and the stairs was a scraggly wasteland, nothing for shelter but smalls rocks and rather alarming bones laying about hap-hazardously. There was nothing for it. He’d have to make a run for it._ _

__Aziraphale made an awkward dash out into the open, trying to stay low and be swift and inconspicuous all at a time. It wasn’t too far to the archway, and after a rather fretful half-minute he had reached the foot. The stairway was more intimidating up close, a dark heavy marble with steep imposing steps._ _

There was a high shrill call behind him.

__Aziraphale didn’t bother to turn ‘round and flew up over the stairs and into the cool dark interior with a frantic flutter of wings._ _

__The archway swallowed him up, the feeling of the most solid of all stones surrounding him. It opened into a long passageway made of the same marble and branching off at the end. He started down it at a half jog, oxfords sliding a bit on the smooth floor, just wanting to put distance between himself and whatever had likely spotted him out there. Torches embedded in the wall at intervals lit up what would have been otherwise pitch-dark, sending strange shadows and half reflections across the warped marble._ _

__The angel slowed to a stop at the end of the passage. It branched off left and right, each hallway equally empty and foreboding as the other._ _

He went left.

__Aziraphale then went left, right, right, left, straight ignoring a branching off either side, right, left, left, left, right, left, and one more right before having to confront the fact that he was in some sort of labyrinth._ _

__The other thing he didn’t want to confront was the fact that for the last handful of turns he’d been hearing something that sounded very much like another set of footsteps. A very heavy clovesome pair haunting his own._ _

Aziraphale quickened his pace and took a sharp right—

__Smack-bang into the minotaur. Because there was a minotaur down here in the Seventh Circle of Hell. Of course there was._ _

__Whether the one of legend or an amalgamated demonic look-alike it didn’t really matter terribly much in the grand scheme of things. The fact was a minotaur was right here, right now, and so was Aziraphale._ _

__The angel had run into the huge hairy beast of myth with enough force to bounce right off his massive chest and stagger back a few steps. The minotaur stared down at the angel, eyes blazing, sparks coming from his snout, fury etched in every line of its terrible monstrous body._ _

“Er, terribly sorry,” Aziraphale tried. “my dear…chappie.” 

The minotaur roared, the walls of the labyrinth shaking with his rage, rearing back his great head and lifting the mighty axe in his hand.

__Say what you will about Aziraphale, for all his fussiness, soft corporation and solidly sedentary ways, when he needed to shake a leg – he could shake a leg with the best of them. With a high pitched squeak the angel dodged out of the way, narrowly evading the battleaxe that rent into the marble where his shoulder had been hovering nearest and fled off down the passage._ _

__The minotaur gave chase. Because of course he did. You could hardly expect a minotaur in a labyrinth to deny his basic nature, could you? Aziraphale didn’t much fancy himself in the role of Theseus. He’d much rather Ariadne waiting with the string and the way out*, but he was stuck as Aziraphale, unwitting angel having a bad day._ _

__*And maybe a nice plate of figs and stuffed dates, and a tankard of mead or two._ _

__The minotaur gained on him, the sheer force behind his charge catching up Aziraphale's sprinting easily. The hallway was too close for his wings to be any use. Heavy footfalls stamped behind him, swiftly gaining. Heart in his throat, Aziraphale took a hard left, skidding on the smooth marble and changing his trajection sharply. As he ran down the passage he could hear the minotaur trying to slow his charge to make the turn._ _

_THUD_

There was a low, frustrated growl. And the footsteps started up again, taking time to regain the momentum.

Aziraphale rushed to the end of the passage where it turned right, using his momentum to shove off the wall and push himself in the new direction. Light, there was light down the end of this passage. 

_THUMP_

Harsh angry snarls sounded behind him, the whole passage shuddering with the weight of the minotaur slamming into the wall and shoving himself back up. 

__Aziraphale ran and ran, keeping his eyes on the light at the end of the hall, all too aware that there were no nice and twisty passageway to loose his friend down and it was wherever the hall opened up to or bust._ _

__There was a horrible stitch in his side from all this dreadful dashing about, and he could feel his divine essence inside of him complaining at the constant proximity and rub against such strong infernal energies. The smooth marble shook beneath his feet as the minotaur gained speed, the long hallway working in his favour as he charged, metaphorical bullseye bright red and taunting on the angel’s back._ _

There was a triumphant roar behind him.

__Aziraphale feinted to the left, the huge gleaming axe thudding down into the marble where he was just a moment ago. Using the moments it took for the axe to be yanked out and back into huge meaty hands, Aziraphale sprinted full out, the hallway leading to the open air._ _

__He leapt out, sailing over a set of stairs and landing in a circle of flat barren earth. All around him was a circular arcade, walkways supported by pillars sheltering row after row of seats, going up as far as he could see. Dark shadowy figures were seated within, only their glowing eyes visible. A cheer rose up from the spectators as the minotaur charged out into what must surely have been a stadium, fit for any gladiator._ _

The passage back into the mountain clanged shut, locking the two of them in together.

“Oh no. Absolutely not,” said Aziraphale.

With a _whoosh_ his wings opened wide, and then he was frantically flapping, rising higher and higher. Way up above he could see a circle of open sky beckoning him, taunting him with freedom, at least from this circle. Below him came the deafening roar of the furious minotaur, and all around the jeers of the shadowy spectators as floor after floor of arcaded seats flashed by in a dizzying rush of glowing eyes. 

He tore his gaze away, looking up and out, watching the circle of sky get larger and larger, praying it wasn’t shut off and this was his ticket out. The last few floors of the arena flashed by. And then there was a tremendous pressure as he encountered a force field. He pushed against it desperately.

__Like ice cracking it gave, and Aziraphale felt the world around him twist and turn, and down he tumbled up into the Sixth Circle._ _

Xxx 

__The Sixth Circle was proving to be most vexing so far._ _

__Aziraphale cautiously crept down a low, narrow hallway, senses straining to pick out any irregularities. He felt one of the tiles under his foot shift ever so slightly and leapt back – narrowly missing the comically huge scythe swinging down from the ceiling._ _

Flaming tombs Dante had said.

__More like an interconnected nightmare of a morgue, a dizzying warren of passageways and crypts looking like something out of one of those terrible Indiana Jones films. It was like someone had flipped through a glossy picture book of Egyptian tombs, cut out the bits they’d liked and filled in the rest with all the fantastical booby traps they could imagine._ _

Rather like those Mummy films, come to think of it*. 

*It was also the result of a month long video game marathon extravaganza some of the younger demons had participated in - for research they insisted - and it really, really showed. They’d even lifted sound effects. This was lost on Aziraphale, who had never partaken in any video game that could be found outside of an arcade.

Entering the next room, the slab of a door slammed shut behind him deafeningly, plunging the square chamber into pitch darkness. The floor began to glow an ominous ghoulish green, illuminating intricate sigils craved into each tile. He’d have to cross them to reach the door on the far side.

Biting his lip, the angel made a quick study of the sigils, repeating each back in his head, going over each meaning carefully to make sure he knew them. He raised his foot and stepped delicately on the tile closest to him, careful not to touch any of the others. He held his breath.

Nothing happened. 

With a harried sigh he picked out his next move, then the next, precariously stretching and hopping his way across the room like a strange deadly variation of twister. He had to be careful to not step on any tiles with – 

_Snick_

The tile he had just landed on turned red. 

“Blast.”

Everything began to shake, the whole chamber rumbling threateningly as the sound of mechanisms shifting into place filled the air.

__“It said ‘Sand’!” protested Aziraphale indignantly. “How could sand be wrong when I’ve been contorting around ‘Scorpion’ and ‘Death on Swift Wings’?!”_ _

As if to answer him sand began to pour in from the ceiling in a thick steady stream, the walls and roof beginning to contract and close in.

Ah.

“No, no no no, you stop that at once,” he told it sternly. The room paid him no mind. Within moments the sand was already up to his ankles, the room contracting inwards, eager to crush him into jelly.

__Panicking, he rushed over to the door, steps uneven and lumbering as the floor started to rise. The door was gone, either by some trick or illusion there was no distinguishing it from the rest of the wall. Desperately he banged against the wall with a fist._ _

The chamber was now beginning to feel a touch more claustrophobic what with sand rising up past his knees, the ceiling and walls slowly coming down to meet him.

“This really is most inconvenient!” he shouted, voice embarrassingly shrill. 

A faint light flared under his fingers.

Blinking, he stared at it for a long second, hope flaring in his chest. Big squarish letters stared back at him.

EMERGENCY EXIT

__Exhaling in a shaky laugh he pushed on it, trying to feel out the parameters of the door. A rectangle outline emerged, no wider than a coffee table._ _

With one great heave the door gave way, and in he tumbled, landing in a heap. Sand poured in after him in a rush, cut off abruptly by the door snapping back into place, leaving the wretched chamber behind.

Xxx

Here’s the thing.

__Think about an amusement park. The bigger the better. When guests arrive, they’re herded through the wickets at the front gates, follow the dubious pathways marked on the maps, wait in the designated lines for the rides, and exit via gift shop. They get the whole amusement park package as advertised, complete with sunburn and overpriced fast food._ _

__Now the staff, they have an entirely different experience. Staff maneuver the park via tunnels and unmarked paths and magical backstage lanyards, allowing them to communicate and change in and out of costume, all to see that the guests have the magical experience they ought, and that any yelling at of staff by higher ups remains behind the scenes._ _

For all it’s the same park, the staff and the guests may well be on co-existing yet entirely separate planes of existence, connected by a few well-hidden gateways.

Hell operated on much the same system. 

Up to this point Aziraphale has been experiencing the visitor side of Hell, intended for poor human souls. At the moment, he has just stumbled through a cast only door, and found himself firmly behind the scenes on the demon side.

__Aziraphale coughed. He gave a disbelieving giggle. He was sitting in a dingy maintenance room, a few glowing dials and switches set into the wall._ _

“…must have tripped it,” came a voice, approaching footsteps accompanying it. 

__Quickly Aziraphale crawled behind a few rusty file cabinets, sand coming off of him from every which way. He hunched down, made himself as small and unobtrusive as he could._ _

“So? What else is new?”

“Look, word is we have an intruder. Lower downs want us to be sharp.” 

“Sharp, yeah. This bloody trap, this _one_ blasted bloody trap with the sand and the walls closing in-you know how many times it’s gone off unprompted this week? Just this week?” 

__Cautiously, Aziraphale peered out at them from in between the filing cabinets. Two demons, one taller and one squatter stood by the cluster of controls. The squat one was holding a clipboard and looking rather put out._ _

“Once?”

“Nine times, _nine_ times! I’d be more surprised if it didn’t go off, I tell you!” 

__The taller demon pulled a lever. Muffled from behind the wall was a low grinding sound as the trap smoothly reset itself. “There, look. Nothing,” she said. “If anything was caught in there it’d be splat against the rock.”_ _

“Caught something there though, hasn’t it?” 

__“Nah, that’s old splat. See how it’s gone all brown? Been here for at least a decade.”_ _

“Alright. Keep an eye out would you?” 

__The tall demon waited until the squat one turned his back. She stuck her tongue out at him, long and thin, curling cartoonishly. Then she dragged a plastic fold chair over to the control panel and plonked down in it. She put her feet up on the panel and crossed them._ _

The angel shifted uncomfortably. 

The demon folder her hands behind her head. She leaned back, tilting the rickety chair precariously far onto its back legs. 

__Aziraphale kept perfectly still and wished very hard that the demon would go back to wherever she had come from._ _

Some ten minutes later - Aziraphale had begun to despair of being trapped behind the file cabinets forever, and was mentally running through daring and stealthy escapades interspersed with how he would embellish this whole wretched night to Crowley once he was safely out and done with it all – the legs of the chair _thunked_ back onto the hard cement floor. 

“Bugger this.” 

Oozing contempt and general lazy rebellion, the demon slunk to her feet, stretched exaggeratedly, and slouched off out of the room. 

__Breathlessly, the angel held his place and started counting down from sixty to make sure it was safe to come out. He only lasted until twenty-three before deciding the coast was clear enough, and let out a long world-weary sigh, slumping in relief. His poor, poor nerves weren’t cut out for this sort of cloak-and-dagger nonsense._ _

First things first. 

He got to his feet and shook out his limbs like a wet disgruntled dog, sand flying out of everywhere, and I mean everywhere on his person. Being forced into absolute stillness for an undetermined amount of time is an excellent way of noticing just how much sand had wormed its devilish way into just how many nooks and crannies heretofore unnoticed and unremarked upon. 

“Nasty uncomfortable business, Hell.” He muttered. 

__Righting his waistcoat, he made his way over to the utility closet. He’d been hoping for some kind of key card, skeleton key, or best of all, a VIP fast-pass to the exit. A weapon might be nice, though he’d settle for a mop in a pinch._ _

The door creaked open, omitting the smell of mildew and old, soggy nylon that’s never been aired out. A heap of black baggy maintenance jackets lay on the floor.

Aziraphle felt a smile tug at his lips. Perhaps a little masquerading wouldn’t go amiss. 

Xxx 

Ostensibly, the Sixth Circle was supposed to be about Heresy. Some of that had been a bit lost in the design, but then it was a large circle. They had special crypts for the tormenting of souls, leaving more than enough space for the younger demons to have a bit of fun with the outer design of it should anyone try to escape*

*Or in the cases when a soul would be told they could go free, should they manage to navigate their way to the exit. These doomed attempts were eagerly watched by staff, much in the same way that men watched sports in a pub, with bets traded over which traps would be the ones to do them in. 

__What Aziraphale encountered - overly large, shapeless jacket donned and collar flipped up rebelliously – were dark, dank hallways of an office-like building. The walls were grimy, a few flickering bulbs lighting what there was to light. The angels’ shoes stuck on something whenever there was flat tile and sunk in distressingly whenever there was horrible puke coloured carpet. The rooms he passed were empty, and as he peered through the windows he could see offices and labs scattered with odd bits of furniture looking like they had been picked out of a garbage heap._ _

What was of most interest to him was the ‘Elevator ->’ sign he’d spotted and was trying to follow the incredibly vague and inconsistent directions to the Promised Lands of Somewhere Else. 

There were voices up ahead coming from a conference room. It was right by the ‘Elevator ←’ sign. He dithered for a moment. He really needed to follow the sign as close as he could if he ever wanted that elevator. Nothing for it but to walk past the room full of demons and hope none of them would spot him through the window. He took a deep breath as he neared, steeling his resolve, getting himself into the head of the demonic maintenance worker he was playing the part of. 

“…best technique. Any questions?”

“What’s the wax for?” 

“It’s—look. Humans find it sexy.” 

__A sneaky glance at the window showed it was full of about fourteen demons, sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs and watching a projection screen as one of them gave a presentation. He was almost at the window now._ _

“What, just…sitting there. All waxy?” 

“No imbecile! You have to heat it up and _then_ it becomes erotic.” 

“How?” 

“Just—here, watch the screen.” 

“…oh.”

__Keeping his head down Azirphale slinked his way past, trying to look menacing and unobtrusive and like he didn’t much care either way what anyone thought of him._ _

“Contact with the wax causes the sexy.”

“So we pour wax on them!” 

__“No you fool! The point is to deny them what they most crave. So we just have it. Great melting pillars of the stuff. And they can’t touch it. They just have to watch it melt slowly, nothing they can do but watch until it drives them into a lustful craze.”_ _

“Now that’s right clever that is!” 

“Oh, very good.”

“Well done!”

“Nope, still don’t get how that’s…”

Clear of the window the angel huffed out a breath and quickened his pace. He ducked past another room, spotting through the window two demons giggling and playing with a taser gun.

And there! At the end of the hallway an elevator. The numbers 7 – 5 were printed over top. He half jogged over, dizzy with relief and not quite able to believe his luck. He hit the call button, hoping it would arrive before anyone could join him, and hoping just as much that no one would be inside when the doors opened.

There was a sound like the banging of a gong and the doors slid open. 

It was empty. 

Shakily, Aziraphale tumbled inside and jammed the button for 5th floor. The gong sounded again and the doors slid shut.

He allowed himself a moment to shut his eyes, shoulders slumping, adrenaline threatening to wear off.

“Come on old boy, buck up,” he whispered. “Only way out is through.”

The lift slowed. Taking a deep breath he opened his eyes, gathering himself as the gong sounded again, heralding his arrival at the Fifth Circle, and the Infernal City of Dis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things become a bit more fraught

The elevator doors _dinged_ open revealing the Fifth Circle of Hell, home to Infernal City of Dis.

Aziraphale’s first thought was that it was beautiful in a sort of gothical ornate way. The floors were made of black marble with veins of gold and red swirling through them, punctuated by intricate archways with monstrous lattices of gold.

It was like looking at a mash up of an upper-end, classy office building with middle-eastern architecture that was most definitely haunted. Oh yes, and it was positively swimming with demons going hither and yon, bustling about in the busy self assured way of rush-hour commuters navigating the tube everywhere.

Some of them looked very sharp indeed, wearing sinfully luxurious and expensive clothes in an odd mash-up of modern office wear and the robes and ornaments of court officials from millennia past. Say what you would about Hell, Aziraphale was rather beginning to feel they were a touch more fashionable than Heaven. At least they could wear colours! And frills. He rather missed frills and lace and beautiful embroidery.

The Fifth Circle was all about Wrath. Oh jolly. These might be a rather…physical bunch. Right. Head down, walk steady, act as if you belong. He scanned the lobby desperately for any sign of the elevators going up. Hanging from the ceiling with intricate golden chains was a sign, Lift 5 – 3 -> Right. Just a few more lift rides and he’d be home and dry in time for supper. Er, breakfast more like.

Merging into the mass of demonic foot-traffic, the angel let himself be herded along, keeping an eye out for where he’d have to break off from the main stream. 

“No. No. Can’t do. Reschedule it for tomorrow.” A demon in a 80’s pantsuit with inch long acrylic nails and a ceremonial scepter pushed past him, speaking loudly into her mobile. She hit him with her suitcase and almost certainly tried to step on his foot with her heels as she passed. “Well that’s not my department, is it Hales? Should have thought of that before you-“

“Coffee, coming through!” Aziraphale just barley moved out of the way of a young imp precariously balancing three full trays of steaming coffee and shoving along raggedly against the flow of traffic. He heard someone yell behind him and the splash of something hot and caffeinated.

“Oi!”

“Oops, too bad mate.”

“You’ll pay for that!” 

Someone shoved Aziraphale from behind hard, sending him colliding into he back of the demon in front of him.

“Watch it!” snarled the demon, clipping him on the shoulder and cutting ahead of him.

A ‘terribly sorry’ was on the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale just barely managed to suppress it before it came off, preventing himself from causing a most serious breach of etiquette.

The commuting mass of the Infernal City’s rush hour turned a corner and spilled out into an arcade. A round, circular walkway hugged the sides of the room with different archways opening up at even intervals. In the center was a deep drop, golden railings blocking anyone from being shoved off into uncertain depths. As he came closer Aziraphale could peer down another arcade directly below and another and another below that. Steam was rising up from wherever it dropped off. 

“Hey, smell that?”

“Way too vague mate.”

“No. There’s something-“

A huge demon drew level with him as he walked. Her hair was a mass of feathers, a blood-red cape draped over gigantic reddish wings. Aziraphale averted his gaze quickly, sensing a huge wave of infernal energy coming off of her. She must be one of the three Furies, one of the more powerful demons that made their home down here.

“Alexia, take this down," she said.

“Yes mistress.”

The angel tried to subtly put someone else between him and his fierce waling, neighbor. He was quickly shoved back into place.

“Bump 4:30am appointment to 4:00am. Don’t tell client.”

“Yes mistress.”

“Order mandatory group improv session for subordinates. Those bastards know what they did, serves them right for…“

She passed him, her small attendant hurrying after, swallowed up by the crowd. He heaved a sigh of relief. That could have been very bad indeed.

Up ahead was a long elegant bridge stretching from one side of the arcade clear across to the other, shrouded in the steam from the big deep drop to who knows where. This is where the majority of the foot traffic was heading and so was Aziraphale.

He could see the sign for the elevator away to the right. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself by pushing and shoving to get out of the fish-like school of demons he found himself moving with. He’d cross the bridge and break away from the crowd when the breaking was good.

Keeping pace with the crowd, Aziraphale shuffled behind the bulk of a long demon with a head like an angler fish. The crowd was moving pretty well, despite the shoving and rogue agents struggling against the flow, leaving disrupted ripples in their wake. 

“Move it!”

Someone shoved into him. He staggered, tripped over a few feet and slammed right into something red and feathery.

He looked up. It was the Fury.

“Erm-hhm,” he managed. 

She stared at him. He had the horrible feeling of being seen, right down to the molecular level. He watched in horror as her nostrils flared. She sucked in a deep breath, feathers bristling, dark energy crackling across them.

“ _ANGEL._ ”

Aziraphale bolted, darting through the throng, forcing his way through the gaps in traffic, sprinting full-out for the other side of the bridge.

“Out of my way!” she roared.

He stayed low, trying to loose her in the crowd. Thankfully this wasn’t a curious bunch, and even as he shoved his way through others around him were doing much the same.

“I said _move!_ ”

There was the lift, 5 – 3 written above it in sickly gold. A row of them lined the wall, and he made a desperate beeline for one that was nearly empty. The doors began to shut. Putting on a burst of speed he leapt at the doors, just managing to wrest his way inside before the doors clanged shut behind him.

He stood there panting and out of breath as the lift whirled to life, taking him up. 

There was a tap on his shoulder. Aziraphale badly concealed his flinch and turned to the only other occupant of the lift. It was a bulky demon wearing a goth cowboy getup right out of old Hollywood. Bright eyes peered out at him from holes cut out of a silk black scarf tied around his face bandit style, the wide downward rim of his hat adding to the general look.

“Howdy. Y’smell a bit funny, partner.”

Aziraphale glared mutely, plunging his hands into his pockets and doing a full body shudder when he found an inch worth of something slimy in both.

The demon took a deep sniff. There was a beat of silence. He moved closer. “I say, what _is_ that smell? Smells almost…divine.”

Aziraphale swallowed down the urge to start giggling wildly out of sheer nerves and willed with all his heart for the lift to go just a little bit faster, oh God why him? Giving a grunt, the angel said in his best most sullen voice: “New cologne.”

_Ding._

“Fourth Circle: Greed.”

The doors opened to the Fourth Circle revealing a lobby of smooth green marble, a massive staircase away in the distance. There was a vague yelling somewhere in the building. 

The demon stared at him for a long moment. “Ah, must be it.” Then he tipped his at and exited the lift. 

Before he had time to sink to the floor in a boneless puddle, someone else moved to step inside. Aziraphale found himself face to face with a huge warty toad shoved inside a blazer just a smidge too small. Two huge protruding eyes stared out blankly from either side of the demon’s head, blinking slowly, one eye after the other. The toad shuffled mutely onto the lift, oozing a line of slime behind them. 

People were beginning to stop and stare at some disturbance coming from further inside the lobby. Aziraphale reached around his new amphibian lift mate and frantically jammed the close button.

“We have an intruder!” shouted a regrettably familiar voice. “Close off the—“

The doors slid shut. Up went the lift. 

Aziraphale could feel himself perspiring, something that only happened when he was very very flustered and really couldn’t help it. It was silent save for the whirling of the lift and the buzzing of a large horsefly he hadn’t noticed before now lurking above their heads.

_Splock_

The toad’s tongue flashed, quick as anything. The buzzing cut off abruptly, the demon happily working their huge wobbly jaw around their hard-won treat. Aziraphale could hear a crunch somewhere and felt his belly churn.

“Third Circle: Gluttony.”

_Diiiiii-_

Huge razor sharp talons pierced through the doors of the lift forcing them open. The Fury’s wings were out, all three pairs of them, her mouth open in a vicious fanged snarl.

“Oh, fuck,” said the angel.

“YOU.”

The toad stopped chewing. “Bloourp?” 

Aziraphale leapt, wings catching him and barley avoiding a deadly swipe of her glistening talons. He flapped frantically, kicking off the back wall of the elevator and bursting into the lobby of the Third Circle.

“Get back here you coward!”

There was a deafening _crack_. He whipped around. She held a long wicked lash in her claw, spiked for her pleasure. She raised her hand, bringing the lash down again.

Adrenaline really was a hell of a drug. Aziraphale was unsure when last he had moved so quickly, flying for all he was worth over the heads of bewildered demons, dodging pillars and chandeliers and the odd wingéd creature lurking in the rafters in his desperate flight away from the raging Fury.

Hot on his heels was the _crack, crack, CRACK_ of the whip, cutting through the air like a spiked guillotine with his name on it. 

“ANGEL!” She roared behind him. “Stand and fight me!”

The lobby split off into tow directions, and in the split second he hesitated, there was a _whisssk_ and a _CRACK!_

Aziraphale cried out, crashing to the ground. His leg felt like it was on fire. Taking in deep gulping breaths, he glanced down. His leg was bloodied, lacerated in a telltale whip-like fashion. The angel forced himself to his feet, wincing at the burning pain across his calve. 

The fury grinned at him across the room, each tooth easily an inch long to say nothing of the incisors, all perfectly, toothpaste commercial white. The barbed whip in her claw glistened with his blood.

“Got you.”

While she may have thought catching an angel to be fine and dandy, Aziraphale did not. In fact he was so entirely not in favour of it that he called up a burst of divine light, burning away the whip and sending his assailant back a few paces. 

Seeing no other options and being forced to act under immense pressure, Aziraphale barreled towards a convenient window opening out into the violent storm of the Third Circle and crashed through it-

Exit pursued by Fury.

Xxx

Aziraphale huddled into a small alcove, closing his eyes against the dull roar of sound coming up off of the city. It was harder to catch his breath then it should have been. Loosing the enraged fury had taken all of his patience and cunning, and a good few of his feathers had been lost to violent minded claws. He’d managed it though, ducking and swerving around the spires of the capital in a mad game of tag and hide-and-seek, all while buffeted on all sides by a vicious unending storm of ice and slush. Dreadful business the lot of it. If Aziraphale could have left a review of his experience of the Infernal City he would have given it one star* out of five, do not recommend.

*For the décor. Because at heart Aziraphale was a romantic, and it was all so dramatic and sweeping he couldn’t help but admire it. But everything else could go bugger off, thanks ever so.

His leg gave a painful throb. Biting his lip against the pain, he wearily opened his eyes and examined the wound. Well. His poor corduroys would never forgive him if they made it out.

Blood dripped from his calve, thick and red, reflecting glowing swirls of gold in the gloom of Hell. It was unmistakably angel blood. Fresh and utterly intoxicating to beings of an occult nature.

With a hushed apology, he tore off a strip off his ruined jacket and wrapped it around the wound, binding it tight. He grit his teeth against the sting of it. There. That would have to do. It would be a bit silly to expect it had been infected with anything other than hellfire, considering the who, what, when, where, and why of his injury, and the dreadful occult energies coming off of the weapon.

Best he could do was bind it tight and get back to earth lickety-split. Hellfire and angels mixed like mosquitos and heavy-duty, industrial bug repellent.

There was now a new and terrible countdown hanging over his head. One way or another, it would all be over before sunrise. 

ACT III

Light a match in the darkness. Watch the small flame flicker and glow, shadows jumping and stretching across the walls, held at bay by its brilliance. For all the flame can beat back the dark it is still only a single match hopelessly outnumbered against the night.

How long can it last before the light is snuffed out, before the shadows lengthen and hunger, before the flame extinguishes, consumed at the last?

Xxx

Going back inside a city buzzing with a pissed off Fury and a hoard of demons alerted to his divine presence was out of the question. That left Aziraphale with the unfortunate choice between flying upwards against the miserable onslaught of slush and hopefully getting to the next circle, or hiding here until he bled out and was discovered.

Grumbling to himself, he pushed off from the shelter of the alcove and headed up into the wet. Oh but he was cold and tired and _uncomfortable_. He shut one eye and tried to tuck his head against his shoulder for what little shelter he could get. The storm continued merrily on despite, or perhaps because of, the angel’s sorry predicament.

So focused was he on the repetitive up and down, up and down of his wings, the constant icy wet in his face and fantasizing about his cozy bookshop and his favourite tartan throw and his favourite demon feeding him dumplings in gravy before a roaring fire that he failed to notice when the wide open above him narrowed down until he banged his head against it.

“Blast!”

He squinted. There was solid stone above him. While you’d think that would mean icy slush wouldn’t be gushing out from it, you’d be mistaken, as this was Hell, and it did as it pleased, laws of physics be damned*.

*Literally. Or not, as they weren’t really functioning except in a way that someone thought was funny.

The ceiling was funneling towards an opening. He cautiously followed the upwards incline to a great perfectly round hole. Well. In he climbed, happy to be anywhere that wasn’t buffeted with slush.

No sooner had he clambered his way up then he felt the world shift and spin around him. Not regrettably sizeable enough to signify the arrival of a Fun New Circle, but enough to tell him he’d crossed into a different dimension. 

He was hit immediately with the smell of dog.

Cautiously he pulled himself to his feet, looking around. He was in a vast chamber lined with cages as far as he could see, stretching up far beyond view. Off to his left was a large dark shape he couldn’t quite make out. A low rumble shook the chamber all throughout, rhythmic and steady. Aziraphale felt the hairs on his neck standup, his instincts responding under the sheer presence of animal threat he could feel pouring out of the place.

There was an almost an audible _ding_ as Aziraphale connected the dots between _smells like dog_ and _thousands of cages_ and _deep rhythmic rumbling_.

Oh good heavens. He was standing in the hell hound kennel.

Whether it was the usual response to someone entering the room or the scent of fresh ethereal blood in the air, it wasn’t really important what did the trick. What mattered – at least to poor Aziraphale – was that right on cue the low rumbling he now recognized as snoring began to cut off, replaced with low threatening growls.

With a flustered sigh, Aziraphale beat his poor old wings to take him up and out, not wanting to hang around.

The huge shape on the floor moved.

Ah.

It appeared that Cerberus, the Massive Hell Hound of the Underworld, was not kept in a cage. Jolly good, just jolly really. The angel flapped his wings harder, cages flashing by as he rose up and up.

The mother hound stirred, rising easily to keep pace with his frantic ascent. Just how big was Cerberus anyway, thought Aziraphale hysterically. No one said anything about her being the size of a small mountain. A large hill really, one Maria von Trapp would sing about being alive with the sound of music on, or in this case, alive what with being a fuck-off enormous hell hound waking up from a nice nap and realizing she was a bit peckish, and oh, was that the small of fresh angel blood in the air? How convenient!

The barking started in earnest now, rows of hostile red eyes flashing by, the cages on all sides beginning to rattle alarmingly. Cutting across it all was an almighty growl, like the sound of an earthquake, the unholy rattle of the world’s largest chainsaw springing to life in a deafening roar. Cerberus was officially awake and ready for breakfast.

Heart stuttering in his chest, Aziraphale flew for all he was worth, beating his wings desperately to put himself as far away from her as he could. One lunge from that beast and he’d be toast with jelly. He could feel the edges of the next circle approaching above him if he concentrated, no more than a mile above.

Two massive red eyes focused on him, each easily the size of a merry-go-round. His stomach gave a horrified little lurch. Now, now that wasn’t what a chap liked to see.

The beast’s great snarl nearly deafened him, rattling the cages of the surrounding hounds with a deadly sound-wave, teasing of the sheer destruction that was the main course of teeth and claws and animal voracity.

Cerberus watched the small, faintly glowing angelic morsel fluttering frantically towards the ceiling. She licked her chops, beginning to drool. The Mother Hound lunged, soaring through the air like a bat out of hell, like a truck off a bridge, like a bolder thrown in a deadly arch towards a besieged city.

Her huge slobbering jaws closed around nothing, missing the angel by the slightest of smidges and huffing hot putrid breath after him. Aziraphale blazed through the ceiling, forcing his way past the barrier and tumbling into the Second Circle of Hell.

A single drop of angel blood fell, silent as a tear, landing upon the dark stone below. Through the deafening growls and snarls of the hell hounds all around it was licked up by a massive infernal tongue. Cerberus’ eyes glowed a deep red as the taste of her denied quarry imprinted itself upon her being. She scented the air, tasting her prey.

The hunt was on.

Xxx

The Second Circle hit Aziraphale like a brick wall. It was liked being dropped in the middle of a blizzard on the outskirts of Pluto, too much, too dark, too cold. Aziraphale was loosing warmth fast, something he could not afford with his divine essence slowly seeping out of his leg, and his energy reserves flagging dangerously.

For a place dedicated to those who sinned for lust, the Second Circle was a deeply, deeply unsexy place. It made sense when you thought about it. There was something about the constant howling storm symbolizing discomfort, no chance of rest or peace as is wrought by those ruled by lust for what they should not have. Or something like that.

What Aziraphale knew was that it was right bally cold and he needed to shake a leg before it froze solid.

But where to go? To chance slipping into the employee side of things with the alarm well and truly raised, hell hounds now having gotten his scent and all? Or to stick to the mortal side of Hell and fly up into the storm?

He remembering the hell hounds and paled.

Storm it was.

With a full-body shiver he spread his wings, immediately being swept off his feet as his feathers caught one of the wild torrents of wind, tossing him about like a paper doll. He was going somewhere, was the good news, and rather fast. If only he could avoid being dashed on the rocks, that would be just lovely.

The less said about the next few frantic, dizzying minutes, the better. His poor hair was a right state, curls plastered to hell and back, half frozen and tossed about like paper on a windy garbage day.

Everything was a sickening blur of darkest night and ice and the terrible howl of the storm pulling at him every which way, the angel could only shut his eyes, try to keep his wings from being wrenched out of their sockets, and pray that it would stop.

And suddenly it did.

The silence and bloom of warmth was like a slap to the face. Aziraphale opened his eyes, still gliding through the violent momentum that had tossed him here. All around him in a great funnel raged the walls of the storm. The angel had been tossed into the eye.

Looking down he saw a crowd of huddled human souls, gathered in front of a ruined slope and guarded on either side by armored demons with long wicked cattle prongs. Atop the slope was a great dais, occupied by a very important looking demon with a wicked whip-like tail and ceremonial armor.

Probably Minos, he supposed, the Judge of Hell. All mortal souls went through him. He looked up every mortal’s sins, judged them, and sent them on their merry way to the circle of Hell best suited to their unique needs.

At least that’s how it looked to the humans. Aziraphale highly suspected the role was largely for show and the actual designation of souls to which circle had its own internal department, much like how Heaven had its own for housing mortals*.

*He was correct. Sometimes when things got busy souls could be left waiting for judgment for years and were eventually shuffled either into Limbo or into the storm of the Second Circle. Alternatively, there were the times when circles were chosen by lotto or by way of dartboard in the break room, the closer to the center the further down they’d go.

Grateful for the reprieve, Aziraphale panted heavily as he flew in place, trying to catch his breath and shivering uncontrollably at the sudden absence of howling icy doom. He blearily watched the poor souls far below be sentenced to their fate. Minos was supposedly some kind of a serpent demon but Aziraphale wasn’t much impressed. He was horned and broad and the only thing serpent-like about him was the tail.

“Really” scoffed the angel, trying to rub some life back into his hands. Bet he couldn’t even saunter.

There was a bit of movement down there. Someone was pointing upward, gesturing at-

Ah. Time to go.

With a great put-upon groan Aziraphale forced himself to keep moving, up and up, careful not to stray too close to the storm and get sucked back into the zone of whirling circling eternal restlessness and terrible no-good very bad hair days.

Some shouting came floating up from down below. It was followed by a deep unholy snarling, and barking.

Aziraphale’s poor battered corporation kicked in with the adrenaline begrudgingly, warning the angel that he ought to stop relying on it so heavily and schedule a cocoa and pastry break in soon if he wanted to keep his adrenaline privileges in future.

This time there was no convenient entrance to the next circle he could feel as he neared the upper boundaries.

“Blast.”

Shutting out the shouting and increased pitch in violent hound noises, the angel closed his eyes and reached out, searching for the way into the next circle up.

It pinged duly on his radar, right up against the cliff way off to his left. Oh buggering hell. He’d have to go back into that wretched miserable storm.

“Alright, alright. Buck up old chap, worse things happen at sea and all.” He breathed out a long breath, tugging his waistcoat to rights and stealing himself for the plunge. “One more circle and it’s up through the gates and tickety-boo all the way home.” He nodded firmly. “Off we go.”

And into the storm he went. Immediately Aziraphale found himself swept up again, tossed about hither and yon, any warmth he had managed to reclaim instantly sapped away. He half expected to see the wicked witch on her broomstick cackling away in all of this muddle. Shutting his eyes he reached out again, zeroing in on where he could feel the next circle pressing.

It was a dreadful dodged flight, wind buffering him from every which way, struggling to keep his wings intact and catching what drafts he could to take him where he needed to be. Around and around the eye he spun, blocking everything out but the feel of the wind and where he needed to be.

With a sickening _crack_ he crashed into the side of the cliff, crying out as his shoulder instantly went hot with pain and then numbed worryingly fast. He’d overshot, missing the entrance by mere feet. The storm spun him around again and he gathered himself, clutching his limp arm in close and waiting for his chance.

_Thud_

He’d smashed into the side of the opening, getting his upper half into it, his poor legs and waist taking the brunt of the rock face. Groaning, he dragged himself inside, taking breath after breath to calm himself down. Mercifully he was out of the storm. His leg had gone worryingly numb along with his arm. That wasn’t a good sign.

A deep rumble shook the cliff, the snarls and barking of a hundred hell hounds filling the air, reaching him even through the whirling wicked storm. Wearily he dragged himself to his feet. If he stopped now he’d never have the strength to get up again. There was nothing for it. He made his way up into the final circle.

Eight down, one to go.

Xxx

Limbo. Hell’s very First Circle, closest to Earth and the heavens beyond.

A towering Citadel took up pride of place to welcome the poor souls who’d been marked for a bad time as they arrived, as looming and menacing as you’d expect it to be. Surrounding the citadel was the barren wasteland that made up Limbo, home to those who hadn’t really done much wrong, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or had been too much of a head-scratcher for the Heavenly Host to sort and thus, were sent downstairs with a shrug and a ‘not my department’.

If you are ever given your choice of Hell’s circles, Limbo is the one you want. More of a glorified waiting room than anything, the human souls there were left more or less to their own devices. Occasionally a demon would come along to do a bit of lurking and menacing as was excepted, but no one really took it to heart*.

*In fact, informal nightclubs and bars had sprung up where demons off-shift might come and hang out with some of the more interesting human souls, playing cards and pirating poor quality TV from Earth for a lark. 

According to Upstairs, the torment of Limbo was that souls therein would have to spend all of eternity knowing they had been forever denied the bliss of Heaven. That was the punishment. Shows you how much the heavenly suits think they know. In all honesty Limbo was probably a better time than a few of the Heavenly Circles put together, but we won’t get into all of that just now. 

Aziraphale, beleaguered, exhausted and utterly frazzled, had surfaced sadly not in one of the delightful joint human-demon run establishments, but inside the Citadel proper (capital C and all).

This is to say that the angel found himself smack-bang in the middle of a dank grimy, very much in use office area, absolutely buzzing with demons sporting office attire that looked like it had been worn for five years straight and been waded through a marsh in.

The Citadel office area for the working demon was arranged like a panopticon, rows of cubicles in a large circle separated by narrow aisles, the offices of the more important demons looming over them, looking down on them as they worked.

This area had actually started out rather similar to Heaven’s office spaces. Modern sleek lines and violently white everything, minimalism was a lifestyle and pristine was the least you could offer Upstairs. Limbo’s offices had looked like that once upon a time. Or rather, they were what happened when the pristine offices had been slowly pumped full of sewer water and toxic sludge, drained after a few years and then had a cheap lumpy coat of grey paint thrown over top, all while the sludge was still gurgling and mutating underneath. 

Grime didn’t begin to cover it*.

*Or rather it did cover it. It covered everything, really.

And the smell. Oh the _smell_. It somehow managed to combine the worst of a sewer on a hot day with the chemicals in cleaning products that made your eyes water and give anyone so unfortunate as to smell them an instant headache - and mixed in with all of that unpleasantness were odd wafts of regular office smells like cheap burnt coffee, overheating printers, and the smell of a hundred lunches packed away in a refrigerator that had very much stopped cooling and was instead acting as an informal proofer, keeping things at the optimum temperature for rising dough – and sending the smell of spoiling meats and mayonnaise all through the office in nauseating waves.

Upon finding himself right in the middle of all of this, Aziraphale made a small panicked noise and was very nearly overcome with the urge to throw up or maybe just sit right down and have a nice little cry. He rather thought he deserved it after all he had been through. 

Unfortunately that was not in the cards for him. He was spotted almost immediately.

“Oi. You. Back to work.”

Aziraphale managed a nod and started to walk away, searching for the exit.

“Hang on,” he halted, heart pumping loudly in his ears. “You don’t work around here.”

“Maintenance request,” the angel grunted, hoarseness and exhaustion adding to the general air of sullen discontent he was going for. “By the gate.”

“Ugh. Can’t you lot do something about that ruddy leak in the kitchen? Satan’s bullocks, that’s been here for centuries.”

Aziraphale just gave a shrug and kept walking, trying very very hard to keep calm and cool and to ignore his throbbing leg and arm.

“One bloody minute,” came a new voice behind him. He picked up the pace, very determinedly not turning around. “Who were you talking to?”

“Maintenance bloke.”

“Then what the blistering fuck was that smell?”

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear this was not looking good. Their voices drifted back to him, getting fainter the further into the office he walked.

“Wot. Prolly one of those new coffee pods whatsits.”

“No, no. Smelled like –“

A horrible shrill sound rang out from the loud speakers, eliciting cries of distress from the office workers.

“Listen up maggots,” barked a voice over the speaker system. “There is an intruder in our midst. How a single angel has managed to go so long without being caught by any of you useless piles of _shite_ is beyond me, but if any of you want to prove yourselves as competent demons capable of hunting one measly angel, be my guest.”

Excited murmurs broke out all around.

“Bring it to me _alive_ – I’ll know if you’ve played with it first. The miserable sod who catches it gets a century’s worth of wages on the spot.”

Aziraphale just about felt his soul leave his body. Well. Best get a wiggle on then.

“Watch out,” someone called, “The hounds are out!”

There were groans and muttering as what sounded like at least ten hell hounds burst into the office, growling and barking, their handlers following behind from a cautious distance.

Now, this was an awful lot to deal with for one angel having a very, very bad night and who was so very close to getting out of this wretched place once and for all. Desperate times called for desperate measures, which is to say Aziraphale fell back on one of his most trusted and true coping mechanisms for deeply unpleasant experiences.

He dissociated.

Well, perhaps that isn’t being fair to him. You see, when an occult or ethereal being distances themselves from their corporation it’s not so much as a tuning out as it is a tuning _in_ to that which they cannot usually experience from inside their fleshy human suits.

In a word, Aziraphale was doing what he was perhaps best at: Compartmentalizing. All that exhaustion and pain and sheer terror, that was going into the compartment of his body, and _he_ was going somewhere else, somewhere literally above all of that messy stuff, to where he could focus instead on objectively getting himself out of here without emotional distractions. And that would be the pilot seat where he would control his poor rattled corporation from. 

What Aziraphale plunged himself into was a grey-scale nightmarish world of distorted shapes and auras. From his vantage point of Somewhere Else himself he could see the layout of the office in murky grey as well as all the auras of every inhabitant. He could see himself, a harried blob turned yellowish blue with exhaustion, and all around him he could see each distinct demonic aura, could pinpoint where they were in relation to himself, what their emotional intentions were, and was gifted a nice and accurate map of the office to navigate himself through from a safe distance*. There. Much easier to deal with.

*In fact it looked rather like the interface of Pacman, just without the little glowy bits you were supposed to eat, and absolutely packed with enemies.

He sent the corporation down an empty aisle at a decent clip, ducking into a cubicle to avoid a dark red shape about to turn the corner. In a distant way he could feel the corporation’s lungs burning. He turned off the breathing. That was a problem for future Aziraphale.

Once the threat had passed he ducked back out, moving along and passing confidently by a demon that was only yellow to mild orange. He had to cross through an intersection occupied by three oranges and one very dangerous red. He picked up the pace, shoving into an orange on the periphery of the group and knocking them into the red. Not stopping, he watched as behind him they all turned to deep red and fell on each other angrily.

The erratic colouring of two hell hounds skirted dangerously close, he could see them picking up his corporation’s scent, tracking it down among the maze of cubicles. He hurried as much as he could without drawing attention. The office was agitated, demons arguing with each other, some rushing about hoping to find the intruder and others happy to use the distraction from work as an excuse to do bugger all. 

Aziraphale piloted his corporation down a crowded aisle, keeping his head down, hands in pockets, moving briskly. As he passed a large group of demons three of their auras changed colour, one to red, one going from yellow into orange, and another lighting up with the sharp purple of curiosity.

Ahead of him a hell hound appeared, blocking off the end of the aisle. Its aura bloomed sharp with excitement, prey in sight.

The angel ducked into the nearest cubicle, watching as more and more of the group behind him turned red and purple with suspicion. He forced his corporation down and under, a small burst of power sending him through the cubicle wall and out the other side.

A hell hound howl rippled across his map, answering calls following from all around.

Speed was of the essence. Throwing all hopes of passing unnoticed to the wind, Aziraphale forced his corporation as fast as it would go, darting past demons, using the general chaos of the office to his advantage to loose the ones that were definitely pursuing him in. Three hell hounds were hot on his trail, and he had no choice but to send a burst of power back at them, slowing them down.

He was nearly across the room. The exit was only a handful of cubicles down. 

Up ahead he could see a group of demons running with intent, trying to cut him off. He stopped mid-step and doubled back, running right at the hell hounds chasing behind him for a few tense moments before swerving off down the aisle to the right, shouldering his way through a cluster of mostly confused demons and dodging a few grabbing hands. 

Near the exit he could see more and more blobs of colour gathering together. Someone had had the good sense to try and stop the intruder from getting any further. The auras were mostly purple and orange, a few reds scattered throughout. They were alerted but mostly confused and curious, and more than happy to stand around gossiping and waiting for a show. Good. With any luck Aziraphale wouldn’t have to give them one.

His view of the office rippled, auras everywhere distorting, heralding the arrival of a massive presence. A huge blackish red mass forced its way into the maze of cubicles, knocking down everything in its path, uncaring for anything except the scent it was chasing.

Cerberus had joined the party.

Aziraphale staggered out of the cubicles and into the open space before the exit, his corporation moving raggedly, sticky and lagging even from his removed vantage point. He could feel the combined attentions of every demon loitering by the exit slide onto his person. Nearly all flickered to a sharp, suspicious purple.

If the howls of the everyday hell hounds had rippled across the map like raindrops in a puddle, then the howl of the Mother Hound, Cerberus herself was like a child in wellys taking a good jump in it. The force of her howl shook demons to their knees, sent cubicles crumbling, curled what little paint wasn’t already curling off the walls and sent horrible bits of sawdust and who knew what slimy horrors spewing down from the rickety ceiling.

It was enough to force Aziraphale from his aloof pilot seat and come crashing back down into his corporation, all the hurts and exhaustion and stress hitting him all at once like a croquet mallet to the head. He nearly threw up at the forced re-orientation, sensations slamming back into place. 

Cerberus was before him, a huge dark slobbering mass of fangs and blood-red eyes, bits of mangled office wear littering her fur like trophies from a glory kill. She lowered her head, lips pulled back in a fearsome snarl that rattled the walls.

Aziraphale gathered himself with difficulty, standing up as tall as he could between Cerberus and the group of demons that were blocking the exit.

Someone made a move towards him. “That’s the angel, get him!”

Cerberus snarled, showing off row after row of vicious teeth, fur standing straight up.

“Shite! She’s gonna pounce lads, move it!”

Aziraphale took a small careful shuffle backwards, towards the exit. Cerberus’s hackles rose, her prey cornered, locked in. It wasn’t going to get away again. Not this time.

“Never mind her, I want that reward!”

“Not gonna be anything left, you idiot—“

The demons behind him were breaking off, running for cover from the inevitable onslaught of a massive fuck-off hell hound doing a pounce.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He locked eyes with the hound for a long terrible moment, refusing to flinch. Then he turned on his heel and barreled towards the exit. 

The remaining demons scattered before him as Cerberus pounced with the grace and sheer agility of a panther wrapped in the shape of a nightmare, and all the speed and force of an avalanche.

Lungs burning, leg throbbing, Aziraphale drudged up what bits of his strength he still had and forced himself to run, putting his power behind it, feeling the sheer animal heat of the hound behind him –

Xxx

On any given day, the Gates of Hell are a surprisingly dull place. Sure it’s frequented by a stream of damned souls being ushered in, all given ample time to read the classic ‘Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here’ slogan and have a little think on that, but it tends to be a mostly orderly shuffle through the gates and into Limbo proper. There’s typically a couple of demons loitering around and smoking, or getting in an extra bit of lurking with sullen menace before a job review, but they were never very interesting.

If you were to ask Razar, one of the score of rotated guards who spent their days patrolling the main entrance to Hell, the Gate wasn’t a terribly exciting place. Most of his days consisted of shuffling about in spiky, dangerous looking armour, pacing back and forth in an intimidating way, and gossiping with Derrik across the gate. What they were supposed to be guarding against, well. Ostensibly it was from an attack by the Heavenly Host. Chances of that happening before the Apocalypse were pretty slim to none, and most angels wouldn’t deign to find themselves anywhere south of Earth – and those that did certainly wouldn’t go about it through the front gates!

So you can imagine it was with great shock that on a perfectly normal shift Razar was suddenly confronted with a huge blast of Divine Light coming not from beyond the gates, but within them. This was followed by the loudest fuck-off noises he had heard in millennium as what appeared to be half of Hell’s residents poured out of the citadel in a mad dash after a single small figure enshrouded in rapidly flickering light.

Can you really blame Razar for doing anything other than staring open-mouthed as first the distinctly divine being flew through the gates with an alarming number of lower-ranking demons hot on its trail? Closing the gates had never even crossed his mind.

Xxx

Things were bad, things were very bad indeed, but Aziraphale couldn’t stop, not for anything.

The great Gates of Hell fell away behind him, and he breathed in deep ragged breaths, catching just a touch of Earth above on the wind. He couldn’t feel his leg, his arm was near useless, the blood loss has made him nauseous and dizzy and every breath he took was a trial, his whole chest aching with each beleaguered inhale and exhale.

He’d made it out of Hell, but there was still one last stretch to Earth proper. Not to mention the hoard of vicious demons whipped up into a frenzy behind him.

All that stood between him and freedom was a long dark chasm, a circle of sky dotted with stars shining far above tantalizingly.

A rain of arrows clanged off the cliff just to his right. He daren’t look behind him, focusing his gaze instead on the sky above, forcing himself well past his limit to keep flying, keep pushing, almost there--!

The walls around him began to contort, huge monstrous arms forming out of them. They grasped at him wildly, great hands spread wide to catch him, crush him. Gasping he dodged them as best he could, chest burning with overexertion.

A vicious roar from Cerberus below rattled his bones as it hit, the sound-wave sending him crashing into one of the huge stone arms. It twisted around, trying desperately to snatch him up. He dodged around it, trying to recover his momentum, hindered by more monstrous hands reaching for him. Scraping deep into the remnants of his energy, he threw a weak blast of Divine Light at them, barely more than a sparkler. It was enough to clear the cluster, to force his battered wings to keep pumping, bringing him higher and higher.

The Fury was gaining on him, whip lashing out sharp and hungry for more of his blood. Not to be outdone was Geyron, all the way up from the Eight Circle, huge eel heads gaping and snapping, and around them both flew a multitude of demons of all ranks, all hungry for the taste of angel flesh.

Something wrapped around his wounded leg and _pulled_.

With a ragged cry Aziraphale crashed into the wall, keeping enough of his wits about him to scramble for a hold, anything to keep him from falling. His fingers caught on a protruding rock and he clung to it for all he was worth.

He’d run dry, used up all of his magic and then some, his vision tunneling with exhaustion.

No. _No_. He was so close!

Something was wrong with his wing. With shaking arms he began to climb, pulling himself up as best he could all while the shrieks and howls of the damned below echoed up after him, coming closer and closer. His hands burned.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “ _Please._ ”

Way up at the top of the tunnel long dark tentacles began to stretch out across the sky, slowly cutting him off from the outside world. From the corner of his eye he caught movement. A great black tentacle was reaching for him, ready to snatch him up and drag him back down.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale closed his eyes and pushed off the wall. The tentacle missed him by mere inches. He beat his wings, gasping in pain at the movement. He gave a few erratic broken flaps, barley enough to give him any lift at all.

Above him he could see the stars, bright and clear through the infernal net that was being cast around them. 

Something pierced through his wing, sending agonizing pain lancing through his whole body. The last of his energy gave out, snuffing out like a match. He was falling.

With the last of his strength Aziraphale extended his hand, trying to reach the stars glittering above him, their beauty smiting him even as they blurred and flickered. A sob caught in his throat.

_Please_

Below him Geyron had surged ahead of the crowd of demons, fighting among themselves to be the ones to catch the falling angel. He swiveled his great heads, huge jaws yawning open, prize nearly in his grasp. 

Lighting fast, something knocked him out of the way.

A giant serpent cut across the sky, snatched the angel out of the air and swallowed him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who showed up fashionably late? 
> 
> I know things look a bit bleak here, but you'll just have to trust in that happy ending tag.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors, I'll go back and give this a proper edit when I am less tired. Yes the chapter count has gone up because this got longer than anticipated, and I don't believe in hurt without comfort

ACT IV

_Angel_

_Aziraphale_

_Stay with me_

Aziraphale gasped for breath, consciousness returning to him in a rush, sucking in breath after desperate breath as if his corporation depended on it. His whole body throbbed in time with his heartbeat, painful, thunderous. 

Hands were on his shoulders, a voice urgently saying his name. 

“Angel, angel please, stay with me.”

“Cr-“ he coughed, crumpled on the hard floor. Everything felt wrong and off, his leg was on fire, he couldn’t breath, could barely see…

Something was cradling his face. And then – relief. A cool wave soothed over him, slowing his heart from its ragged tempo, easing his pains, draining the terrible burn from his leg.

He opened his eyes.

“Crowley-“ he managed, dizzy with everything, exhaustion, the hellfire leaving his system via demonic miracle. The horrible realization he was back in Hell.

But not alone.

“There, there you are.” Crowley gathered him up tightly, pressing kisses across his face. Hope began to kindle in his spirit, the despair that had nearly swallowed him fading, drawing back. Crowley was here. Everything would be all right. No matter what happened they would face it together.

“Crowley,” the angel said again, drinking in the sight of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I swallowed you,” said Crowley, rubbing his hands up and down the angel’s back. He looked disheveled, wild-eyed and sharp, a spring-trap that could go off at any second. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

Aziraphale stared. He didn’t really remember being swallowed. He’d been falling and then…nothing. Some part of his brain kicked in and informed him he was soaked through. Like an old computer dialing up to the internet he slowly processed the information, connecting the dots between ‘swallowed’ and ‘wet’. Ah.

“…s’all right, my dear.” If he had to be covered in any demon’s slobber he’d much rather it be Crowley’s than anyone else’s.

“I’m so sorry for bringing you back here. I couldn’t get out, they’d closed the way off back to Earth.”

“I know. I know. Thank you.”

Crowley’s arms tightened around him. “’Course. Of _course_ , you stupid—“

Angry voices echoed towards them.

Crowley whirled around to stare wildly at the door for a long moment before turning back to Aziraphale. He took the angel’s face between his hands tenderly.

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale, do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said. “More than anything.”

“I promise you, I _promise_ you I have a plan, I’ll get you out of here but you must trust me. Can you do that?”

Aziraphale gave a wobbly smile. “You’ve already vored me, my dear. Do your worst.”

Crowley gave a startled laugh, kissing him desperately. “Who taught you that?” he asked breathlessly, pulling back.

“I live in Soho, dear. One does hear things.”

“Of course you do,” he said, voice thick with affection. Crowley kissed him one more time. There was a sudden sharp pain in his wing. Crowley had plucked one of his feathers. Before he had time to do more than open his mouth the door flew open.

Demons burst into the room with the sound of a small explosion. At the front was the Fury, followed by Minos and an unsettling millipede demon that immediately scurried up the wall. Others were clamoring behind them trying to get inside, but the Fury held them back with her bulk, red wings fanned, magnificent in her rage.

Crowley bared his teeth, incisors elongating into proper fangs. His hold on the angel turned into an iron grip, the angles of his body suddenly threatening, predatory. “Back off, it’sssss mine!”

The Fury grabbed Crowley by the throat, easily lifting him clean off the ground. “YOU back off. I saw him first.”

The sheer absurdity of her statement was nearly made Aziraphale laugh. As if any of them had any greater claim on him than Crowley had. What utter tosh.

There was a brandishing of fangs and claws and a sound like a sack vicious of snakes being stepped on. In a flash Crowley was dashed violently against the wall. He landed in a heap on the floor. Unmoving. 

Aziraphale stared. Oh, now he was worrying. He knew Crowley had said to trust him, but surely _this_ wasn’t what he had planned. Soft as he made himself to be, Aziraphale knew there was a time and place for a good proper smiting. And even at the best of times anyone having a go at his husband was asking for a bit of Divine Retribution. He forced himself to his feet, spreading his wings and centering himself. 

The Fury ignored the prone Crowley entirely and advanced towards the angel. “You’re _mine_.”

“I think not,” said Aziraphale. He reached deep down into his core and pulled out what bits of his strength that had recovered itself. He manifested his light out in a sharp whirl, wielded it like the short sword he had given away all those millennium ago. It was enough the send the Fury back a few steps, hissing and spitting, fangs barred.

No one noticed the giant millipede demon skittering across the ceiling until it was making a grab at the angel, lunging out of the shadows in a flurry of thin arms and claws. Aziraphale flinched back, lashing out at the new demon.

“Not a chance!” howled the Fury, managing to grab Aziraphale around the neck.

There was a terrific crash. The Minotaur appeared in the doorway, chest heaving, steam coming visibly off of his bulk. He reared his great head and charged, uncaring of who he hit. The majority of the demons scattered.

The Fury tried to make a break for it with Aziraphale, hauling him up with her in a flurry of blood red wings. The angel kicked and lashed out, landing a few blows and struggling for all he had. The millipede lunged at them from the ceiling. With a shriek the Fury lashed out at it, the other demon barely managing to dodge a vicious swipe of her talons. Aziraphale elbowed her hard in the ribs, sending her to her knees. 

From behind came a sift swipe of a scythe, wielded by a shadowy Jackal that had all but materialized out of the nether. The Minotaur had cleared the doorway and roughly thrown at least four demons to the ground, sizing up the Fury and blocking the only exit.

Aziraphale could no longer see Crowley.

“Mine! It’s mine,” she hissed, squeezing Aziraphale’s neck until it was all he could do to keep conscious from the pressure.

“We’ll see about that,” said the Jackal, voice coming from everywhere at once.

The Minotaur roared and lunged at the Fury who dodged out of the way, hauling Aziraphale over her shoulder to keep him clear of the demon’s grasp. The millipede made another many-legged grab for the angel from behind, half wrenching him from her grasp. Aziraphale let out an indignant sound at his mishandling, unsteadily sending a shard of light in a sharp arc at his assailant. The millipede twisted out of the way, wrapping its long spindly arms around the angel in a vice. 

Quick as a flash the Jackal slashed across the millipede’s side, sending spindly legs flying everywhere to land twitching on the floor. The Fury twisted around and lunged for Aziraphale – thwarted at the last minute by the Minotaur boldly slamming into her in a pile of brawn and fur with the sound of a stampede.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut fully expecting to forcibly hit the ground when a new pair of arms grabbed him. A low level imp had managed to sneak up and couldn’t believe his luck.

“Ha!” the imp couldn’t help but cow triumphantly. He had captured the angel! 

Every person in the room stopped fighting and turned as one to look at the imp. 

“Eh…heh,” he shuffled backwards nervously, halfheartedly trying to drag Aziraphale after him. The angel wrenched his arm out of the imp’s grip. “I’ll just be going, shall I?”

They pounced.

It was all a bit of a nasty blur after that. Fangs and claws and spindly fingers grasped at him, pulling him this way and that all with the snarling and fury of the fighting demons washed over and around him. He would feel a tiny bit flattered at the attention if the circumstances were any different. The angel defended himself as best as he could, utterly disoriented, struggling to stay afloat, trying break free and make a dash for it.

A harsh piercing whistle cut through the air, reaching such a painful pitch that everyone involuntarily halted to cover their ears.

“ _What_ izz going on?” Beelzebub stood in the doorway, a cloud of flies buzzing angrily around her.

The Jackal swiftly eviscerated the centipede in the second he was distracted by the infernal second-in-command.

“Enough! Drop him,” she commanded. “The angel iz mine.”

For a split second everything in the room ground to a halt, time slowing down to near infinitesimal increments. Sound buzzed out. In that slightest of spaces every hair on Aziraphale’s body stood on end, aware of a new presence, vast and unnameable. Then came a light like an exploding star, vast, violent, glorious and utterly unstoppable. 

Such a light had not been seen in Hell for millennia. You can imagine it came as a bit of a shock to its denizens, especially as it was accompanied by a supersonic shock-wave that sent every demon in the room flying from the sheer force of it. 

It made no sound within the human register, but as occult and ethereal beings exist on several dimensional planes at once they could all perfectly hear the sound of it, like the moment after a drum is struck, that hanging second of anticipation after the loud blast of a cannon, the striking of a gong felt more than heard from deep underwater.

Aziraphale himself was only dropped and a bit stunned. The shock-wave was celestial in origin.

The angel watched in awe as a golden glow filled the room, forcing the demons back like shadows fleeing from a torch. There stood a tall solitary figure shrouded in white flame, eyes like burning stars, hair like the molten sun, wings huge and glowing, their pure splendor obscuring all other features.

An angel.

Aziraphale stared slack-jawed, a disbelieving part of his brain refusing to accept it even as some small hurt part of himself dared to hope that Heaven really had sent someone down to save him.

His wrist was grabbed by a glowing hand and he was on his feet. Before he could say 'tickety-boo' Aziraphale was whisked off down the passage, caught up in the wake of his celestial escort.

Now Aziraphale was a lot of things. Residents of Soho would say he was a kindly if fussy sort of person, always happy to support locals businesses and a firm fixture in the queer community. Those who had tried to buy his books would say something else about him entirely no doubt, as would his supervisors Upstairs. But the point was despite his distracted head-stuck-in-a-bookishness, Aziraphale could be quite observant indeed when he wished.

“Thank goodness,” he breathed as they dashed down a corridor, all black and green marble, so shiny he could make out their blurred reflections as they passed. “I was starting to worry.”

Hi savior chanced a quick glance at him before sending three small burst of light behind them, stunning the furious demons on their tail. “Don’t know what you mean,” they said lowly.

“Dear, please. I’d know you blind, know you in the dark, in the pits of Hell, know you from any thousands of stars in the sky.”

Crowley made some sort of a strangled sound, his grip around the angel’s wrist tightening. The glow around them flared brighter. “Can’t talk here. Hang on.”

They smashed through a wall, barreled off down a hallway at breakneck speed, went left, right, up a flight of stairs and then directly into a broom closet. Crowley warded it quickly, blocking out all sound, all sight, and sending strong ‘don’t notice me’ spells every which way. The angel panted heavily, leaning against the wall and trying desperately to catch his breath. Crowley had healed the hellfire wound, but the physical tiredness and strain of being in Hell for however long was making itself known.

“Should hold for a bit.” Crowley turned to his companion, face full of concern. Aziraphale straightened with effort, waving him off. Whatever the demon saw must not have been terribly convincing as Crowley looked at him grimly and wrapped his arms around him. Aziraphale leaned into the embrace gratefully. “Is it obvious? The disguise.” 

“Not a wit," said the angel, soaking up his partner’s presence like a man dying from thirst. "How are you managing that?” 

Crowley gave a strangled laugh. He tapped Aziraphale’s feather, which he saw was tied around his neck and glowing like a star. “Poorly. ‘M borrowing from you. Replicating your aura back out, mixing it with my own. Can’t keep this light show up for long.”

“Here.” Aziraphale shut his eyes. He summoned what energy he had regained thanks to Crowley’s healing and sent it into his husband. The glow around them flared, shielding them both protectively. 

“No no, angel you need it more than me,” murmured Crowley

Aziraphale shook his head. “We’ll share.”

Crowley breathed out a long sigh, holding him closer. “Listen. They’ve closed off the gates. No one’s getting in or out, not even through the back ways.”

Azirahale’s heart stuttered in his chest. “We’re trapped.”

“No, _no_.” Crowley met his gaze. “What’s the one thing they always underestimate, eh? There’s another way.”

The angel stared for a long moment. “Dante.”

“When enough people believe something it warps the fabric of reality. Can’t you feel it? The only way out is down. It feels right, doesn’t it?”

It did. Aziraphale had spent more time than any being on Earth, Heaven, or Hell devoted to the written word. He knew religious textures and books of prophecy and magics better than anyone. Aziraphale was also a hopeless romantic, and knew narratives and tropes like he knew his own bookshop. It felt _right_. Once an idea like that took hold, no matter what the Lower Downs did to try and stop it, it became true. There was a way out.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Climb down the body of the devil himself to make it out the other side.”

“My lot do like a challenge.”

“Can you get us all the way down?”

Crowley grinned, sharp and roguish. “That’s the thing about Hell. Going down is easy. It’s going up that’s the trouble. We won’t have to worry about that. Already done that on your own, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale groaned. “I started on the Eighth Circle. I was right there, I could have—“

“None of that, angel," said Crowley gently. “Don’t think it would have worked.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose the narrative must have its way. Through all nine and out through the center.” With a start he realized he had skipped a circle by taking the lift. A suspicion began to gnaw at him. “Crowley, what circle are we on?”

“Fourth, Greed. Couldn’t you tell by all the squabbling?”

The one floor he hadn't done. “Ineffable,” he breathed. The faint hope that had begun to bloom in his chest since Crowley had come to save him began to grow. He felt lighter, the glow coming back to his wings, his battered spirit patching itself back together.

There was a muffled snarling coming from nearby. Crowley winced, straightening up. He took Aziraphale's hand and squeezed it.

“Right, time to go. Hold tight, angel. Going down, Ninth floor or bust.”

With a blast of light the closet door blew open, crashing into a pair slobbering hell hounds as Crowley and Aziraphale sped away, fully cloaked in righteously bright celestial light. Down one long hallway, then a smaller, taking three turns in quick succession and bowling over a heavyset demonic crab before continuing on.

They ran out into a wide atrium, jumping the steps leading down into the middle where demons swarmed about. Crowley’s wings caught him in a glide, Aziraphale following, hands still clasped firmly together as they flew over the heads of the demons below like a blinding comet striking through the heart of Hell.

The air was filled with screams and shouts, a harsh siren ringing out over the loudspeakers. Demons began to take to the air, flying at them with sharp claws and fangs.

They’d reached the center of the circle, walkways hugging the walls of a huge circular room with bridges crisscrossing over a vast descent, just like he’d seen in the Fifth Circle. This is where Crowley was leading them.

 _Shortcut_ , said Crowley’s voice in his head, giving his hand a quick squeeze.

Righto.

A cloud of shrieking vultures with rusty crooked talons flew at them, detaching from the rafters far above. Aziraphale batted away twowith his arm, blinding them with a glare of his halo. Crowley just barreled through, letting his comet-like aura do the dirty work, stunning and blinding any demon stupid enough to get close.

A _twang_ sounded, familiar to the angel though it had been centuries since he’d last heard something like it. Without a thought he dragged Crowley by the hand sharply away to the left. A flurry of wickedly sharp arrows sped by, narrowly missing Crowley’s wing by millimeters.

They were nearly at the descent. A few desperate flaps and they were over the top of it. Immediately there was a powerful sensation of being swept up and sucked down like water in a drain, a dizzying, spiraling falling that hooked somewhere deep in his stomach and pulled.

Going down was easy, Crowley had said. The Fourth Circle blurred around them, down, down they went, caught up in a nauseating vortex. All around the rest of the circle passed in a blur, a mess of glowing lights and eyes and hard, austere spires. A pressure began to build all around. They were approaching the Fifth Circle. They hit like a stone dropped into a pool of sludge, breaking the surface and getting pulled right down, weighed down by all that muck and slimy mildew.

A muffled wall surrounded them like murky water, separating them from the City of Dis as they sped past and through. Aziraphale only caught a deep sense of rage, of wrath passing by in a terrifying wave. He’d much prefer this over sneaking into lifts again.

The Sixth Circle approached, sudden turbulence causing their trajection to stutter. Their hands tightened around the other, not daring to let go as they were buffeted roughly by an invisible force. 

Below them, rising up from the depths was a huge, hideous mouth. A worm, Aziraphale thought, adrenaline stabbing through him with a jolt of fear. They were heading right for it. Razor sharp teeth and pincers glimmered as row after row were exposed around the circular mouth.

Panicked, Aziraphale urgently tried to slow their decent. Crowley fought against him, keeping them on a steady collision course for the back of the worm’s throat.

 _Illusion_ came Crowley’s voice, squeezing back just as hard. _Just hold on, angel!_

Hysteria was crowding in around the edges of his vision, but Aziraphale gathered himself desperately. Right, jolly good, just tip-top, into the belly of the beast they’d go.

The worm was nearly upon them, he could feel the heat, the stench of its breath, see the outermost row of teeth widen to swallow them up whole. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped everything he had around himself and Crowley, ready to fend the beast off as best he—

The pressure dissipated. Eyes flying open, Aziraphale saw the worm was gone, nothing more than a nasty optical trick. Before he could breath a sigh of relief they were sucked down into the Sixth Circle, the horrible falling feeling back deep in his stomach before they landed in a heap on cold, smooth marble.

Panting, Aziraphale dragged himself to his knees. He was still holding Crowley’s hand. “All right?” he managed, wings shaking themselves out.

Crowley let out a long groan, nodding. “Yea.” Then he laughed, sharp and jarring. “’M bloody fantastic! Come on angel, up we go! They’ll be after us in a jiffy.”

Aziraphale made a sound between pleased and surprised. “You said jiffy.” He accepted Crowley’s hand up.

 _“Bleaugh._ Hell brings out the worst in you. Now come on.”

The Sixth Circle was much as Aziraphale remembered it; a giant claustrophobic tomb with long narrow passageways, intricate traps and false ends, and lit entirely from below with an eerie ominous witch-light, morgue green. 

The difference was that this time Crowley appeared to have something of a clearance card. As they ran down the passageways, too narrow for their wings to be of any use, traps would begin to go off only to be halted in their tracks, frozen in a flare of greenish light. As he was pulled along by Crowley’s iron grip on his hand, Aziraphale was very nearly clipped by a huge circular spinning saw poking out from the wall, and had a rather close call with a swinging plank of stakes that froze mid-descent close enough to brush the very tops of his curls.

Crowley didn’t slow, not for any trap, pit, precarious crossing or stray demon unfortunate enough to get in the way. The demon masquerading as seraph navigated the treacherous twists and turns as if he were behind the wheel of his Bentley and ‘Don’t Stop me Now’ had just come on – Aziraphale running beside and a bit behind, caught up in his wake and taken along for the ride as passenger.

Heavy crypt doors sprung open at Crowley’s flick of the wrist, omitting angel and demon who sped on through without ever slowing. From what little light drifted in from the hallway, Aziraphale could see huge towering pillars going up and up and up into darkness. This was an immense chamber. Blue-ish light illuminated what looked like large stone caskets and caught on the edge of warding circles written in infernal script.

The doors crashed shut behind them, sending them into inky darkness.

Their combined glow flared to compensate. It barely penetrated more than an inch in front of them. Despite the cold drafts and vastness of the ceiling far above a horrible feeling of claustrophobia sunk into the angel. Faint blue light bled into the floor all around them. The warding circles were coming to life, spaced as far as Aziraphale could see in every direction, each with an ominous casket in the middle of them.

“Ohshitohshitoh _shit_.” Crowley leapt into the air, spreading his wings and taking flight at a speed that could put any falcon to shame. Aziraphale felt his feet leave the ground while he hurried to follow suit.

A low chanting filled the air.

 _Crowley_ , he said through their link, getting a Very Bad Feeling.

 _Wrong turn,_ said Crowley tensely. _Hang tight._

There was the sound of a hundred heavy stone lids being levered off their caskets.

 _Wraiths_. Crowley’s hand tightened around his desperately, putting on an extra burst of speed. Aziraphale had no way of knowing how close they were to the far end of the chamber or if they were even going in the right direction, but he was quite certain indeed that he’d rather be Somewhere Else before the ghastly specters of Hell could arise from their slumber.

The temperature in the chamber dropped a good ten, twenty degrees, his breath suddenly visible before him. Every single hair on his body raised on end, his feathers ruffling, his many eyes in the other plane winking open in alarm.

With a wail so terrible, so ghastly it could curdle milk and whiten hair, the crypt came alive, a hundred undead sentinels rising from their slumber, flickering like candle flame in the air all around.

Crowley and Aziraphale had nearly reached the far side of the crypt. They felt the combined focus of every spectral gaze zero in on them, felt the air shift as they moved to attack. Crowley threw out a palm, flinging the door open and barreling through it, emerging out into the relative safety of the rest of the Sixth Circle. With a flick of his wrist he sent the heavy doors smashing shut behind them. 

It would do little good.

There was a moment of silence. Then with the sound of a ghostly vacuum cleaner, wraiths swarmed after them, phasing through walls and lunging with skeletal claws, trying to paralyze and freeze with the sheer shock of the sight of them. Aziraphale’s heart was beating erratically in his chest, foreign involuntary spasms of fear bolstering him from all sides, despair threatening to drag him down by the throat. Crowley’s pulse thrummed against his fingers, warm, deceptively human, keeping him steady, reminding him of all he had to loose and everything he had to gain.

A banshee appeared out of nowhere, empty eye sockets elongated far beyond what should be possible, mouth opening grotesquely wide in a terrible glass-shattering shriek. Caught by surprise, her claws raked against Crowley’s side, tearing deep into his spirit. Crowley’s light shuttered, and he half collapsed in agony.

Aziraphale saw red.

With the sound of a thousand chiming bells the Principality flipped his true form, a furious halo of eyes and wings fanning open righteously, shielding his mate.

The banshee’s cry was lost, completely absorbed by the sheer glory of Aziraphale, dissolving into nothing. The angel took out every wraith and spiteful undead spirit within a ten-foot radius, the force of his smite enough to make the walls ring.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder.

_M’ okay, angel. S’ alright._

The angel’s true form slid shut, a dazzling spectacle of sheer radiance folded back up and away for later like a paper fan. The fatigue and sheer relief hit him all at once in a dizzying rush. Crowley was okay. Aziraphale could feel his mate’s spirit mostly recovered from the assault, having soaked up Aziraphale’s own light and patched himself up with it, the clever old thing. 

Then his hand was grasped and they were off again.

The walls began to narrow. Crowley landed, transitioning from flight to a sprint without missing a beat. Aziraphale copied him, legs protesting after the brief break they were given. They ran down a low passageway of sheer obsidian, horrible cries echoing after them. A squeeze to his hand was the only warning he got before Crowley leapt right off the edge of a gaping pit, fanning his wings out in descent, pulling his shrieking angel along with him.

Down, down, _down_ they sped, and now Aziraphale could feel it, the Seventh Circle approaching rapidly to swallow them up. They pierced the barrier, all of his senses suddenly cutting off, completely unable to tell up from down or a crépe from a bottle of wine. They broke the surface, vomited out into the Seventh Circle to land on something soft.

Getting his bearings, Aziraphale looked around. Mournful sloping trees surrounded them, a heavy despair hanging in the gloom. They’d been deposited in the middle of a clearing in the Forest of Suicides. 

Crowley tensed, whirling around and scanning the sky wildly. “Fuck!”

In the distance, perfectly outlined against the reddish sky were the rapidly approaching outlines of winged beings, an entire flock all moving with the deadly precision of birds of prey. It seemed they’d rolled out the welcome wagon. 

Crowley’s seraphic glamour flickered. As one they realized he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for much longer and protect Aziraphale at the same time.

 _We need to split up_ , said Crowley.

Aziraphale let out a high-pitched sound. _Are you mad? You’ve seen those dreadful horror films, that is the worst thing we could do!_

_Let me distract them. Give you a chance to slip away._

Aziraphale shook with fury. _Out of the question. I’m not leaving without you._

_I have a plan._

Crowley grabbed his face, hands on either of his cheeks. Aziraphale mirrored him, shutting his eyes and placing his forehead against his partner’s. Between them their souls reached out, thoughts and emotions rushing lightning fast.

 _Don’t you dare leave me,_ said Aziraphale. _Crowley, don’t you dare._

_Never. Aziraphale, never. Just for now._

_I won’t leave you!_

_No, no look. See._

Aziraphale saw. A black feather, a tiny piece of Crowley’s soul hiding in the quill. Like jumping through a mobile.

 _Just for now, angel,_ tempted the serpent. _Lead them on a merry dance, and then I’ll come back to you, quick as a flash._

Tears blurred the angels’ eyes. _How will I know if you’re in trouble? How can I leave this place while you’re still here? I won’t do it!_

_They won’t catch me. Not your wily old serpent, he’s far too clever for them. They won’t be able to keep me anyway. Not with you holding onto that._

_They could if you’re caught unawares. They could trap you._

_I won’t let them._

Aziraphale’s whole being protested against splitting up. But it was their best bet. Crowley couldn’t keep up the pretense of being an angel for much longer, especially not if they were heading right into the very heart of Hell. He’d be faster on his own, have more freedom to dash about wherever he liked and lie low if things got dicey. Aziraphale on the other hand had a deadline and a date with the devil. Crowley pressed his advantage, knowing he had won.

_Aziraphale. You’ll have to face Lucifer. He can’t hurt you. Not if you’ve gone through all the circles. He will try to trick you, deceive you. Don’t let him. He has no power over you._

_I won’t. I know. How will I know you haven’t gotten into trouble?_

_You’ll just have to have faith in me._ Crowley smiled. _You can do that, can’t you angel? Spare a little faith?_

 _Oh_ fuck _you_. Aziraphale seized Crowley and kissed him desperately.

“Always, my dear”, he vowed, eyes brimming with tears.

“Ciao angel.”

Crowley squeezed his hand, gave a quick wink and flew off glowing like a supernova, the whole flock of harpies swarming after him, blindly following his light. It took everything Aziraphale had not to follow after. Clutching Crowley’s feather to his chest he gathered the darkness around him, using it as a cloak as he flew out into the open towards the edge of the waterfall.

Xxx

While Aziraphale was lamenting his return to the dismal Eighth Circle, as fate would have it Geyron, the guardian of that very same circle was also hashing over the events of a few hours earlier in frustration.

Imagine his surprise of slinking all the way back down from the Gates of Hell only to look up and see the very same angel he had been pursuing all night on his doorstep, hovering over the tar pits yet again, like some bizarre divine case of déjà vu. 

Angel and Wyrm Beast stared at one another in incredulous silence for a long uncomfortable moment.

“Look here,” said the angel. “Let’s just pretend we didn’t see each other and both be on our way, yes?” He was well and done with being chased, and suspected doing the chasing had to get old at some point as well.

Geyron stared at him with bulbous dead eyes. Unfortunately he wasn’t a very complex life form. He roared, lunging again after the angel in a frenzy.

“Oh _really_.” Down Aziraphale dived, swaning at a dizzying speed right for the lake of tar, raging demonic wyrm hot on his tail yet again. He pulled up before hitting the surface but kept low, thick bubbles of tar splattering against his clothes as he flew past.

Smoke stung his eyes and the back of his throat, but he didn’t dare go any higher. Aziraphale had been through too damn much. He’d panicked, rationalized, barley held it together, kept a still upper lip, lost it utterly, had a dissociative episode, and nearly had a crisis of faith – and now Crowley, his very own dear serpent of a husband was down here risking his _life_ – Aziraphale was not going to let anything so insignificant as an overgrown eel and some hot tar stop him.

He just had to finish the Eighth Circle, do the Ninth, and waltz on down past the devil himself and everything would be tip-top.

The tar was flowing down in a long river, curving gently. The curve became more pronounced, the mighty walls of Hell itself narrowing, closing in the further and further down he went, spiraling inward to some central point. Past the bend of the cliff the river suddenly dropped off, flowing down into a wide amphitheatre. It was filled with souls, hundreds of souls, stumbling about in pits of tar, pits of wreathing masses of humanity, pits filled with fire, pits of venom, pits full of…some kind of reptile creatures?

His distraction cost him.

Geyron closed in from behind, with a quick snap of his left and central jaws, he bit down, just catching the edge of Aziraphale’s right wing. The angel screamed as a foot of feathers were torn and snapped off, Geyron’s teeth narrowly missing the bone and meat of his wing. He flapped wildly, realizing his equilibrium was off with his missing feathers.

He had to land, he was dead in the air flying like a sloshed bumblebee. Aziraphale half folded his wings, dodging around Geyron’s right head and descending in a spiral for the volcanic rocks and assorted pits of misery. He looked for the pit with the thickest most foul smelling smoke spewing out and aimed for it.

Black smoke encompassed him on all sides, burning in his lungs, cutting off all light completely. The ground rushed up to meet him, taking him entirely by surprise as he couldn’t see a single solitary thing. Aziraphale just had time to land in a roll, saving his body from further harm as he landed in the pit.

Geyron was making a racket up above somewhere, Aziraphale didn’t know, he could barley see his hand in front of his face. Resisting the urge to cough, the angel hunched low and hurried in the direction he hoped would take him to the edge of the pit. He stumbled over volcanic rock, glass, the odd skull, blackened tar that hadn’t fully cooled just yet, until at last he slammed his foot into what must have been the lip of the pit. 

Carefully, so carefully he dragged himself up and over it, peeking out of the cover of the smoke. Geyron was still around, but it was clear the wyrm hadn’t a smidge of an idea where to look. His long body was coiling and uncoiling in frustration far above. Taking his chances, Aziraphale slid down out of the pit, joining a group of miserable souls marching dully across the barren plane.

They were coming up to a great stone bridge. Lizard demons decked out in ornate armour slunk around menacingly, brandishing whips and spears as they patrolled the souls, jostling them along in their endless march.

The angel shuffled along, keeping his head down, for the first time thankful for all the horrible tar fumes he’d been exposed to that helped him blend in so very well. A minute or two or walking and he was right beside the entrance to the bridge. Of course, no souls were being prodded across. This clearly had all the marking of a staff-only entrance. Or in this case, it was more of a VIP sort of a deal.

Yet across it Aziraphale must go, as he could see on the far side the walls of a giant stone well. And down that well was the way into the Ninth and most Deadly Circle of All.

He slowed his gait just a little, waiting until he was right up next to the bridge, chancing it a little until the closest lizard guard was fully engrossed in intimidating a mortal – and he bolted.

Now, Aziraphale had been turning over the pros and cons of trying to walk across in a stately enough manor to make it seem as if he belonged, or just booking it across to the other side like Gabriel was about to pop in for a little prep talk. 

The thing was, Aziraphale was tired. He was exhausted right down to the molecular level and he was sick and tired of all this cloak and dagger skulking about nonsense. He just wanted this whole wretched thing over and done with, and so in a rare turnabout for the angel speed won out over caution. He bolted.

Like a hare catching one over on the hounds, the angel was a good third of the way across the bridge before anyone spotted him. There was a great deal of yelling and cursing. A horn was blown. Geyron finally clued in to where his prey had gotten off to yet again and redirected his course with all due fury. Aziraphale didn’t bother turning around, he just ran and ran, shutting his eyes and feeling out with his senses. 

An arrow bounced off the stone just next to his foot, another sailing past his right ear. He could feel heavy footsteps vibrating through the stone of the bridge, the lizard guards in hot pursuit. He was over halfway across, he could taste the colder, less sulfuric air wafting over from his destination.

Geyron rippled through the air, disturbing it like an eel through water. The lizards slowed, hesitant to get in between three slobbering gaping mouths and their prey. Jolly good. This might just work out.

At more than two thirds across, Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks.

Geyron sailed over him, his momentum continuing to carry him even as he slammed on the breaks. It was a bit like watching a truck trying to pull a tight U-turn at an unexpected wall in the middle of a motorway. Geyron coiled and twisted, hiting against the wall of the cliff and finally getting his long unruly body to cooperate. He looked down, dead eyes alight with the thrill of the chase.

The bridge was deserted. Geyron shrieked, utterly fed up with everything. He should have taken Aziraphale’s offer of pretending not to notice him when he had the chance.

Aziraphale was already well over the bridge and was completing the last of his little jaunt over to the imposing stone well. Giving one last look back at the chaos he had left behind him, the angel hoisted himself up onto the edge of the well.

He looked down. That was probably a mistake. He could make out massive figures half buried in the walls, the shape of an arm, the edge of a jaw. Cheery. Giants or no, he’d come far too far to back out now.

Aziraphale dropped, the darkness swallowing him up as he descended one final time, into the Ninth Circle of Hell.

The stone giants watched unmoving. There was nothing they could do to an angel that would be worse than what he would find down there.

Xxx

Aziraphale landed, barley managing to protect himself from jagged rocks he fell onto. Getting to his feet he looked around. Cocytus stretched out before him, waters eternally frozen into thick blackish ice.

Only one more Circle to go.

The frozen lake stung his feat as he stepped onto it, biting into his flesh. He stumbled. It was cold. Oh it was freezing. Winds swept up around him, low and morning, the mournful cry of a village dead from famine, buried in snow, the haunting wailing of those starved, forever hungry, forever forsaken.

Gasping for breath he forced himself to keep moving. Already he could see his toes turning white, his poor oxfords burned away somewhere back in the tar pits. 

_Thump_

Under the ice was a hand, palm pressed flat against the underside. As he watched the fingers began to curl, clawing.

_Thump thump thump_

More hands appeared, desperately trying to break the ice. Behind them he could just make out the bloated faces of the condemned souls, staring unseeingly at him. Attracted to his warmth.

He ran.

Under the ice more and more souls rose, dull thumping and muffled cries sounding all around him, drowning him with wave after wave of despair. He staggered, falling heavily, catching himself on his hands. Panting, he found himself face to face to face with the bloated body of a soul, eyes wide and tortured, mouth open in a wail that pierced at the very heart of him.

With a cry he staggered to his feet, forcing himself to keep running.

“It’s not real, it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real,” he panted, forcing himself to believe it. The thumping stopped, the thrashing beneath the ice slowed, falling quiet.

_“Aziraphale!”_

The pained cry nearly stopped him. He tripped, catching himself as he stumbled, a sob finally breaking free. 

It was Crowley’s voice.

“Aziraphale! Angel!”

The light was changing around him, the ghost light through the ice turning from blue to a darker purple.

“Come back! Help me! Aziraphale!”

Each cry rattled his very being, shook his spirit right to his core, cut through to the most vulnerable places inside of him. It was like knives in his heart, razor sharp icicles cutting him to pieces. He pressed on, even as it ripped and tore.

“Don’t leave me! Angel!”

_Don’t look back, don’t look back don’t look back_ , he chanted to himself like a mantra.

There was a horrible tortured scream that nearly did the angel in.

“Please! Please help me!”

Tears were freely falling from his eyes, blurring his vision, his throat closing in on itself. He forced himself to keep moving, refused to look back.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

“Angel!”

“Please! Please, help me!”

Then all at once, it was silent.

He stood there, ragged, breaths heaving, feet blue from the cold, tears freezing on his face. 

“Crowley,” he whispered. “Please. _Please._ ” 

Aziraphale was in bad shape. His wing was bleeding, his limbs were dead-weights burning with exhaustion, his very soul raw around the edges from so much infernal energy. It was cold, so cold down here. The air was thick with despair, sickly sweet, intoxicating. He didn’t have much time left until dawn. 

With more effort than it should have taken, he forced himself to his feet. He was worried about Crowley. It was his fault Crowley was down here risking his neck. If anything happened to him…

Aziraphale fought back a sudden sob, hopelessness overwhelming him. He’d had such a miserable night. He was worried about his husband. He was worried about himself. Would Dante’s backdoor really work? He knew he had to believe that it would, but faith was a hard currency in Hell. 

Something glimmered, drawing his eye. It was Crowley’s feather. 

With shaking fingers he reached out, toughing it softly. It was warm. He raised it to his lips. “Crowley” he said, voice barely more then a desperate whisper. He shut his eyes, reaching out with his whole heart and soul, searching desperately for any flicker of the soul that was so familiar. “Crowley…”

What could he say?

He was in the Ninth Circle of Hell, exhausted and wounded. All around him the darkness swam and crawled sickeningly, thick with malice, with hunger, lapping at his blood as it leaked onto the ice beneath him.

He couldn’t give up. Hell preyed on despair. He mustn’t give into it. Few things were as deadly to an angel.

He wanted Crowley. He wanted to see Crowley again so badly it hurt, wanted to hear his voice and feel his hands on him, to see that clever grin and bright eyes. There was so much…Crowley was so much.

“Crowley. I-“ he took a long breath. “Do you remember back in Babylon, that little tavern with the baklava? That once night when you spilled wine all over that hapless dignitary because I said he cut a handsome figure? And I got rather cross at you over it? Well, I confess. I didn’t think him handsome at all. I only said it to see if you’d be jealous. And I know you know I did it on purpose. Just wanted to make sure you knew…” He trailed off, biting back a pained sound as his wing throbbed.

“I wanted you even then. Think I always was a bit gone over you, even on the wall. Big wily serpent, you gave me a little flutter. I love you. Always have, always will,” he whispered, pouring all of his love into it. The feather tickled his lips, sleek black with flecks of starlight glowing faintly in the darkness.

He didn’t know it, but around him the darkness drew back around him, recoiled.

He would just have to have faith. In the very darkest most forsaken place in all of creation, he’d have faith in the one thing he could trust above all others. Faith in the cleverest, wiliest demon he called his husband, his partner, his love, his best friend in all the world and anywhere else.

Trembling, he took a step forward. Then another.

Aziraphale was an angel. He was _made_ to love. It was his purpose. So he did what only an angel could do and cloaked himself in it, all 6000 years of loving the earth fiercely, of loving humans, of loving _Crowley_ —he wielded it like a shield, pointed it like a sword—and took step after step across the ice, as the darkness around him tried to swallow him whole.

Xxx

At some point his eyes had slipped shut, concentrating all of his energy into just putting one foot before the other, blocking out the sounds and sights that plagued him. Something shifted in the atmosphere, changed. He could feel around him the space closing off, compressing, concentrating.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. There he stood, right in the very heart of darkness.

Black ice stretched out, large veins running towards the center where a massive figure was propped upright, lower half trapped under the ice.

“Well, well, well.” Lucifer’s voice was like the caress of oil-slicked fingers across a clean sheet of parchment, dark and silky and unclean. Aziraphale shudder involuntarily, entire soul recoiling from his presence. “What have we here?”

The angel took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“It’s not every day an angel wanders into my realm. Let alone two.” The devil tapped a long clawed finger on the ice, the sound like a thousand fingernails down a chalkboard. “I ought to congratulate you really. Six million demons and not a one bright enough to catch you. You must have quite the title, little angel. Don’t you?”

The sudden overwhelming urge to identify himself nearly overcame him. It was unfortunate for the devil that Aziraphale had spent the last few centuries in London, and had by this point assimilated enough repressed Britishness that combined with his own innate stubborn nature he could tamp down on the impulse. After all, he’d spent six thousand years resisting from holding Crowley’s hand. This was a pittance.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow at his silence. “Now that’s not very polite. Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

Shakily, the angel fought against the paralysis he hadn’t even realized had gripped him. He took a step forward.

The devil’s eyes widened and then narrowed, a sharp grin spreading across his face, too wide, too sharp. “Well. Colour me impressed. But I’d expected more from an angel. Not a hint of propriety. What poor conduct you have.”

Aziraphale continued to walk towards him, taking even measured breaths, holding himself carefully.

“Come now. You’ll have to at least tell me what brings you all the way into my personal domain,” he purred. “I just don’t know what to think. Are you here peacefully? The number of smitings reported in the last hour suspect otherwise. You do realize this is a violation of the treaty, don’t you?”

Aziraphale staggered. 

Lucifer grinned. “We could very well have a war on our hands, you do realize. On _your_ hands. They’ve sent you down here as a spy, they want to see what I’ve been up to, haven’t they?”

That…that wasn’t had happened. He’d been sent to investigate a potential portal. And to close it. 

But why would they send him if they suspected it was an active portal? Why did they insist it be done tonight? By a single principality without any backup?

Lucifer laughed, cold and cruel. “Unless this is a very pathetic assassination attempt.” He leaned back and spread his arms wide. “Go ahead little angel, do your worst!” 

Aziraphale took another step, sweat freezing on his skin.

Lucifer’s smiled faded, turning into an exaggerated mocking frown. “But they didn’t do much of a good job in getting you back out now, did they? Typical. Just like Heaven to send a man to do their dirty work and leave him to the lions once he’s done his bit. _Mercy_ they say,” he spat. “I am far more merciful than any of them have ever been. Tell me,” he crooned. “What did they promise you? They’d be in touch?”

All the millennia of broken promises and false assurances washed over Aziraphale, every condescending smile, each one of his achievements he’d painstakingly labored over dismissed with a callous wave of the hand, _do better Aziraphale, don’t be so frivolous, are you an angel or not?_

Why had they sent him? What if they had planned this? There was no love lost between him and his superiors. Perhaps they had gotten tired of being embarrassed by his existence and decided to tidy up the loose end that was Aziraphale once and for all.

But someone had come for him, through no action of Heaven at all. The thought bolstered him, gave him the strength to keep walking, set his spine a little straighter.

Lucifer tilted his head. “They did send someone after you, didn’t they? I was quite shocked. While a single lowly angel like you down here could be smoothed over with the right incentive – what is your rank anyway, little angel? Guardian? Principality? You’re not a Virtue, are you? – your Seraph friend, now that is troubling. That smacks of aggression. An overt show of force like that.” He shook his head. “I ought to retaliate. We’ve a number of infernal dukes and counts who would be more than happy to pay upstairs a little visit.”

Heaven should have thought about that before they sent him on this wretched task, thought the angel bitterly. Whoever put that portal there should have to take the blame for whatever stumbled through. Aziraphale pushed down his fears of a war breaking out, the close call of the failed Apocalypse still too fresh in his memory.

Lucifer rested his head in his hand. “I am impressed. Truly. There is so little ambition in my lot. Not true ambition. Spineless cowards, all of them.” He regarded Aziraphale, eyes glowing. “Not you, little angel. You don’t cower before me at all. Are all of Her warriors so stalwart?” He laughed. “Can’t image Gabriel down here without boasting. Pride will get him one day, mark me. Michael, now she wouldn’t talk but we’d already be fighting. No, I think you are something special. Something interesting.” 

The praise wrapped around him like barbed wire. He gritted his teeth. He was getting close, almost within the Devil’s huge arm span. Just a bit further.

“What a pretty feather you have there,” Fear lurched through him as a large claw came terrifyingly close, battering him with painful infernal radiation just through proximity. It graced over Crowley’s feather tied around his neck by a cord. “Does it belong to your lover? The one who came to rescue you?”

Aziraphale’s hand closed around it protectively, shielding it from his view. A fierce protective righteousness flared up inside of him. He glared at the Devil, nearly forgetting himself and letting his true form slip through. There was the faintest impression of eyes before they wicked out. Lucifer smiled widely, fangs gleaming in the light.

“What devotion. He came all the way into the depths of Hell to save you. And here you are, deserting him.” He scoffed. “So little faith for an angel. You’d fit right in here. You know we caught him some fifteen minutes ago.” 

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered painfully, his steps wavering.

“Maybe he’ll be a more engaging conversationalist than you’ve proven to be, hmm? Oh he’ll last for a long, long time, but it will be most interesting getting all the answers out of him that you’re not telling me. What must he think of you now, knowing you’ve betrayed him, left him to rot?” 

Lucifer watched the angel for a long moment, saw the pain and distress playing across his form, saw the stubborn set of his shoulders, his continued dogged advance. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you and your lover go free.”

Aziraphale twitched, breaths coming heavy.

“You do realize everything you don’t tell me will only be forced out of your lover, yes? You could spare him all of it. I can be merciful, you know.”

The angel was so close, he could reach out and touch the devil’s flesh. 

“Alright, I can see you drive a hard bargain. Ha! Fit right in with all of my attorneys you would.” He grinned, looming high above him. “Let’s sweeten the deal. Your name and rank, that’s all. Your name and your rank, and I’ll let you go free. Your lover will be able to follow right up after. I give you my word.”

The infernal pressure was immense. This near to him Aziraphale was close to being overcome by the sheer power and silent malice radiating off of Lucifer’s bulk. His pace has slowed to a shuffle, feeling as if he were fighting against gravity, swimming against the tide to keep moving.

Lucifer huffed. He did not enjoy being ignored and was quickly becoming agitated at how far this angel was getting. 

“Stay here then. Ever considered it? You have more drive than half of my court put together. I can see it you know, all of your sins, every time you’ve ever indulged, given into temptation. You’d make a wonderful demon. What would you like? Power? I’ll give it to you. What a magnificent Count you’d make. I may be The Great Deceiver, but hear this angel, and know it is true; I will gladly give you a place among my courtiers. You will know pleasure and power like you’ve never had, freedom from Heaven’s tight leash. What do you say? I won’t even break you in.”

The angel stood, panting, staring at the place where the Devil’s torso met the ice. Somehow, there was supposed to be a way for him to slip right down there and fall through the earth to pop out on the other side. 

“That’s not going to work,” taunted Lucifer. “There is no backdoor out of Hell. I’m surprised you fell for that. It’s obvious you’d make a better demon than an angel. Look at you. Soft, reeking of sin. I bet you covet your lover more than the Almighty. _Blasphemous_ ". 

Something inside Aziraphale snapped. 

He’d had an awful, miserable night, he’d had his poor oxfords burnt to a crisp, had utterly ruined his manicure, got his feathers all covered in muck, been _vored_ by his husband – and now here was this giant bloody condescending _twat_ critiquing his corporation and calling his love for his husband blasphemous – it was the last straw. Lucifer was the last thing standing in his way between a nice cup of cocoa and sleeping for a week with his very own demon. 

“That’s quite enough.” The angel's voice broke across the silence like the toll of a bell.

Lucifer beamed, leaning back to admire him. “He speaks!”

“I have seen your realm,” said Aziraphale. “I have traveled through each Circle, been given divine guidance on my journey down." 

“Was that what that was? Nice try. I don’t think so.”

The angel met his gaze, giving him his very best Customer Glower. “I seek passage back to Earth, and that is where I shall now go.”

“Little angel,” Lucifer cooed, lips splitting open into a monstrous grin, “You are wrong. This is the very seat of my power, the very heart of all darkness. You don’t decide when you can leave. I do.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Frankly, no one asked your opinion.”

“You _insolent_ little pest.” Darkness descended all around, a fierce growl shaking the walls of the cavern, splintering the top layer of ice. “You’re forgetting your place, _angel_. You are nothing.” Lucifer's eyes glowed like a fright train about to plow over a small furry animal. “I could tear you apart piece by piece! I can unmake you right down to your miserable cells! I am the Endless Night, the Great Beast, the ADVERSARY!”

The angel snapped. “Oh, go stuff it, will you?” 

Lucifer spluttered, incandescent in rage.

Utterly at the end of his patience and pushed to the very end of his limits, Aziraphale used everything he had to push through whatever barrier had been holding him in place. He stomped hard on the edge of the ice. It fell away, exposing a dark opening between Lucifer’s mighty torso and the frozen lake. The angel cringed in distaste. That was his way out. 

“You’d leave your lover behind!” hissed Lucifer, trying to swipe at him. “You’d condemn him to death and torture!” 

“Right!” said the angel briskly, shaking so badly his teeth were clattering. “This has been lovely and all, expect for how it really, really hasn't been -” 

“- You’ll start the war! You are going to Fall for this! And I won’t be as merciful when you come crawling back!”

“But I’ve quite got to dash - ”

“- All the demons of Hell will hunt you down, there is no place you can hide from me!”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale sniffed. “I’ve _been_ hunted by all the demons of Hell. Funny how not a one could catch me. Ta.”

And with that Aziraphale dropped down between the ice and a hard place, sliding down Lucifer’s huge body and very nearly grabbing the Devil by the balls. It was fortunate it was dark as pitch and the angel never knew just how close of a brush he had almost had with Satan’s sack.

The furious howling of Lucifer was muffled far above as Aziraphale was sucked under heavy tar, tossed about like a stone in a washing machine. Nausea rose up in a wave. He tried to curl in on himself as he was buffeted, shock only just now starting to hit him. He hoped with all had that Crowley had followed, that he had jumped and hidden himself in his feather, safe against Aziraphale’s chest, tucked away close beyond detection.

Gravity did a sudden flip-flop, spinning him around until he was falling upwards, toppling over and over like a leaf on a blustery day. Pressure built and built and built until he was sure he would explode with it, threatening to scramble his essence apart. 

All at once it broke like the popping of a balloon. He hit the ground with a final thud, everything going still.

Aziraphale gagged, body shuddering violently as if to reject everything it had been subjected to. He collapsed onto his side, vomiting. The feather against his heart gave a soft throb. 

_Crowley_. He could feel his presence.

He gave a shaky laugh and collapsed onto his back. Above him glittered a canopy of stars, clear and cool, the first pale blue fingers of predawn touching the eastern sky.

They’d made it out.


	4. Chapter 4

ACT V

The thing about narratives, thought Aziraphale as he lay exhausted on the cold ground dazedly watching a heavenly ray of light descend down onto him from On High, was that once they got their hooks into you, you had to see them through.

_Inferno_ , while the best known part of _The Divine Comedy_ was only part one. Following Hell was the earthly tour of Limbo and then a final victory lap of the Heavenly Circles where Dante was reunited with his beloved Beatrice and his story came to an end. 

Aziraphale supposed in a sort of half delirious half apathetic way that being rather rudely escorted up to Heaven might as well happen at this point. He felt the light take hold of him, start to pull him up and up. He tapped the feather around his neck, feeling Crowley’s warm presence scamper off. As much as Aziraphale would have appreciated the support, they’d only just survived the fallout of an angel in Hell. The last thing they needed now was a demon in Heaven.

The Celestial Glory of the Silver City began to approach. His vision whited out, a glad ringing of bells and triumphant choirs of ‘Gloria’ filling his ears, flooding his head with visions of heavenly beings in golden armour and proud wingéd lions standing guard. Oh good lord. This is why he took the escalator up whenever he had to make the commute in to work.

His feet touched down on mercilessly clean tiles, a minimalist conference room materializing around him in a haze so white it was straight out of a toothpaste commercial.

Three angels stood expectantly in a neat semi circle. He stared at them blankly, at their too straight postures, their clothing so pristine and uncreased you half expected to see the price tags still attached. The sheer juxtaposition between the sense of wonder and beauty he’d felt looking up at the starry sky on Earth and _this_ was like being slapped with a wet fish*.

*Naturally Aziraphale was a Monte Python fan. The first time he’d seen the fish-slapping dance he’d laughed until he’d cried and sloshed a good deal of Bordeaux all over Crowley’s trousers in the process.

“Principality Aziraphale.”

The angels’ expressions had shifted from composed to varying degrees of shock and alarm. The one in the middle had spoken. He sported an especially sharp modern suit and had an aura that just screamed Terribly Important Person. Aziraphale squinted at his gold-lined name tag. It read ‘Bariphon’.

“What happened to you?” asked the angel to his right. He thought he recognized her as an HR representative. Her name was…Lithuliel? Something in that neighborhood. It was all a bit hazy at the moment. 

Aziraphale licked his lips, tasting blood and the sharp edge of brimstone. “I…ah.” It was too surreal to be standing here now after crawling through Hell and being chased by hoards of incensed demons. Aziraphale giggled. He couldn’t help it, it bust out of him all at once in a rush. 

“Are you all right?” asked the angel on the left. He was dressed in medical robes a few centuries out of fashion. Must be one of Raphael’s lot.

“Hmm. Mm.” He smiled at them all, feeling his face tighten unpleasantly as something that had dried on it started to flake off. Oh. What a wretched feeling that was. Golly. 

This place always made him feel like a muddy school child being sent to the principal’s office, complete with a scowling caretaker following in his wake to clean up his mess. This time that feeling was actually warranted. He looked down at himself, noting mildly that he was absolutely caked in every sort of grime and soot and filth imaginable. And blood too. He was sure there must be blood. He straightened his bow tie, inordinately pleased that it was still there so he could do so.

“Have you closed the portal?” asked Lithuliel.

“Ha,” he panted. He was in shock, he must be. The portal. Did he manage to close it before it sucked him down? Oh. He blinked, wavering on his feet. Knew it was a portal, did they? Not asking him what the disturbance was. Had probably known all along what it was when he’d been sent off to poke around in it. “No,” came his voice, steadier than he had expected. “Fraid I was a bit preoccupied at the time.”

“Would you mind explaining to us” started Bariphon, clearly irritated, “why you not only failed to complete your mission, but _why_ you completely vanished off the face of the Earth for several hours? We’ve received complaints from Downstairs about trespassers, you wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?” He wrinkled his nose. “And why did you see fit to come up here in such a state of disarray?”

Aziraphale was happy to find he still had it in himself to be offended. “Didn’t have a choice really. You all brought me up without so much as a calling card.” He sniffed.

“The portal, Aziraphale.” Bariphon smiled in a deeply unpleasant way. “Your mission was to disarm it, why did you not only fail to do so but saw fit to go AWOL instead?”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him. He’d had quite enough of this. “Now, see. I think we’re getting a bit confused. My mission was to investigate a disturbance that could _possibly_ be a Hell portal, and to close it if it was indeed an active one. Thing is-” he bounced on his feet a bit unsteadily, realizing he was barefoot “-thing is no one warned me that the place was - what’s that delightful phrase? – Ah yes, ‘Locked and loaded’ with a very active angel trap.”

The medic gasped. 

“Quite,” he nodded, his inner stage performer crowing with satisfaction at electing an appropriate response. “I’m afraid it rather sucked me right down before I could get out a single ‘By the power I compel thee!’”

Bariphon glared. “Your orders were not to fall into the trap –“

“No, they were to investigate it tonight, by myself, without any backup or any time to prepare." Lithuliel and the medic shared a look. “Thought it was a bit odd when there’s usually a team of sorts for particularly nasty spots of bother.”

“Wait, wait,” said the medic. “Are you saying you were taken down to – Down?”

“Righto!” Aziraphale’s smile may have had just a splash of mania at the edges. That was fine. Sometimes a spot of mania is just what we need.

“Here, here, sit down.” A pure white, high backed ergonomic office chair manifested to his right, the medic ushering him towards it. As one, all eyes swerved to the sad state of Aziraphale’s coat and trousers, looking like they’d been laundered in a junkyard, dragged across a volcanic wasteland and then thrown in the sewers for a little soak.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Better not. Thanks awfully though! Right decent of you.”

“Aziraphale.” Lithuliel pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let me get this straight. You were teleported down to Hell?” She held up a hand. “Yes and no answers only, please.”

“Hmm, ah-hem. Yes,” said Aziraphale. The medic visibly paled.

“Did you take the portal back out?” Lithuliel asked slowly.

“Mn. No.”

“No?”

“Yes.”

Bariphon blinked at him. “Yes, you took the portal?”

“Un, no.” 

“No as in you didn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Yes as in you did?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “No.”

“No you didn’t take it?”

“Yes. Er, no.”

“No? You did not?” he asked again, a desperate note creeping into his voice. 

“No,” agreed Aziraphale.

“So you did take it?”

“Mh- no.”

“No!?”

Lithuliel stepped in between them, holding up her hands. “Enough! Aziraphale, why didn’t you take the portal back out?”

“Nnn – now that’s not a yes or no-" 

“Answer the question!”

Aziraphale huffed, far too tired for all of this. “Couldn’t do could I? It was gone.”

“Then…how did you get out?” she asked.

“Ha, now that. I ah,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. He dearly wanted a nice mug of cocoa. Or a shot or three of hot sake. “Funny story really.” He raised a finger. “I went up. Started on the Eighth Circle, got all the way up to the gates before I was caught. Hah, and then-“

And then he got an idea. Then angel got a wonderful, awful, _horrible_ idea.

“And that’s when the seraph came down to save me,” said Aziraphale. 

There was a long moment of silence so thick you could cut it with a knife and spread it on toast. “The what?” asked Lithuliel.

He beamed. “Oh, I was in a dreadful fix! I tell you, it was a real proper miracle when they came down. I wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed my disappearance so quickly, but you did!”

“A seraph?” repeated Bariphon dumbly.

“Yes. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that. Now, I didn’t catch their name. Silly me, I feel just awful about that but with everything going on and all the demons of Hell et al. chasing us I got rather swept up. What is their name of the by the by, so I may pass on my thanks personally?”

The three angels stared at each other in shock.

“They have come up, haven’t they?” asked Aziraphale, all bright-eyed and painfully guileless. All that was missing was a demure fluttering of eyelashes to drive home his innocence, but that would be putting it on a bit thick even for him. “The seraph you sent down? We were separated at the end there. You should have asked them, I’m sure they could have cleared all of this up.” He gave little smile. “You really should have been expecting some complaints from Downstairs, you know. Awfully decent of you to send such powerful backup without knowing for sure I was in trouble, really.”

“We didn’t-” Bariphon stepped on Lithuliel’s foot. 

_Aha_ , thought Aziraphale. _Gotcha_.

Bariphon clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, flashing a thousand-dollar business smile full of empty promises and unpaid overtime. “Gosh, their name's slipped my mind as well. Wouldn’t you know it.”

Aziraphale blinked serenely at them. “Well, you will let me know, won’t you? I owe them ever so much. And I must thank you all as well. It does a simple Principality good to know how much you have the backs of your operatives down there, and just how ready you are to help one of us out when we get in over our heads.”

He turned away and then spun back ‘round to face them, tottering a little at the movement, delighting at how they half lurched towards him as he stumbled, hanging on his every movement. The Magnificent Mr.Fell, Magician Extraordinaire was glowing with having so thoroughly captured his audience’s attention.

“I was a bit worried about facing a Hell portal all on my lonesome you see,” he said, “but now I realize I should have known better to doubt even for a moment that not a trick gets by the Celestial Choirs. And of course you were ready and waiting for any sign of distress.”

Bariphon’s face had gone very still. “As you say, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiled pleasantly. “Er, was there anything else?”

Lithuliel gaped at him. “Just to clear things up. The portal is still open?”

“Ah. Not sure, really. Only saw it the once.” 

“We’ll send someone down,” said Bariphon.

“Do be careful,” said Aziraphale with a jaunty little grin. “It _is_ active, rather.”

“Rather,” he parroted.

“Just, just a moment.” Lithuliel stepped forward. “Principality Aziraphale. If the seraph saved you, why did you exit Hell through the lowest portal?”

Oh, he’d _so_ been hoping they’d ask that.

Aziraphale gave his best condescending customer smile. “Why, I went through it, of course. My seraph savior caused quite the distraction allowing me to pop all the way down unnoticed.”

“But that’s…” the medic cleared his throat. “That way is the lair of – of the Great Adversary.”

“The devil?” asked Aziraphale lightly. “And a wretched conversationalist he was too.” He sniffed and smiled all the more brightly at their shocked faces. “If that would be all I’d rather like to-“ he swayed on his feet for a moment, watching as they all half jerked into movement to steady him. He regained his footing, waving them off with a grateful smile. “Thank you. If that would be all I’d rather like to get back to Earth and, ooh. Maybe sit down for a little while!”

“Of course, of course!”

Lithuliel nodded grimly. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Righto.” He beamed at them, all sunshine and grime and brimstone. “Ta!”

And with that Aziraphale turned and staggered out, attracting the bewildered and alarmed stares of every angel he passed.

Xxx

It was only after some ten minutes of walking that Aziraphale began to suspect something wasn’t quite right.

He thought he hadn't been taken too deeply in Heaven when he'd been so rudely escorted up. It certainly hadn’t felt like more than a Fifth or maybe a Sixth Circle conference room. But now as ten minutes stretched into fifteen and long empty white hallway after hallway stretched before him without nary a direction sign or stray angel to be seen that he started to properly worry.

Whilst similar to Hell in the general bell-shape* and consisting of dimensional Circles stacked atop of each other, Heaven was as a rule much more orderly than Hell. Because of course it was. It was part of the branding after all. Even the Divine Gardens for souls to frolic about in was a pale facsimile of Eden **. 

*A right-sided bell, unlike the upside-down shape of Hell.

**Aziraphale had seen Heaven’s version of Eden three millennia ago and been deeply unimpressed. It lacked any of the wild beauty of the real Eden, which as a newly corporated angel Aziraphale had found intoxicating, bewildering and addicting all at once, an assault on senses he had barley begun to understand. The real garden had regularly left dizzy and punch-drunk with wonder while Heaven’s garden was more like a child’s play version of the place overseen by a ruthlessly tidy-minded gardener obsessed with rigid symmetry. It certainly lacked that exciting, slithering, undercurrent of temptation that Aziraphale had later come to recognize as something of a Crowley hallmark.

Being a largely Earth-bound angel, Aziraphale was most familiar with the staff-only sections of Heaven. Even with his infrequent commutes Upstairs, even being exhausted, dimensionaly jet-lagged and in a good deal of shock, Aziraphale realized with a horrible sinking feeling that he wasn’t getting any closer to the exit.

Something was wrong. He slowed, then sped up, hoping that soon, very soon, the endless white would give way to a bend in the passage, or a much welcomed sign directing him to the elevators. He’d even take the stairs, all 9000 of them down starting to look very agreeable compared to the alternative.

Purgatory.

That was the next stop on Dante’s travel guide. And while purgatory was supposed to exist on Earth, perhaps for Aziraphale the narrative had fittingly swapped itself around.

For that’s what Heaven had always been for him, hadn’t it? A waiting place. A prison keeping him from where he most wanted to be. A punishment. As if being discorporated wasn’t a nasty enough business it was followed up by weeks to months to sometimes years of forms and paperwork and busywork his higher-ups might deign to grace him with. Just something to keep him busy while he was loitering around waiting for a new corporation to be issued. Can’t be slothful now can we, Aziraphale? Make yourself useful for a change, eh buddy? 

The hall he was in gave the slightest flicker. Turning back all he could see was a long corridor, identical to what he saw in all directions.

He shut his eyes. “No. No no no. _No_.” He couldn’t panic now. He had been through too _damn_ much. “Buck up old boy,” he whispered, clasping his hands together to steady himself. 

He took a deep breath and reached out with his senses, tried to locate himself in the midst of the vast Celestial Glory of the Nine Circles. Something was scrambling him, tossing him about like driftwood on the sea. This didn’t feel like any part of the Heavenly Circles he had been to. It felt rather, like a strange pocket dimension constantly and impossibly looping on itself like an Escher painting, an origami map folding and refolding itself eternally.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and straightened his bow-tie. Giving a little nod, he resumed his walking.

The thing was, time passed strangely in Heaven. There were clocks up here. Of course there were. Gabriel was a bit obsessed with all the trappings of capitalism and office culture. It was ghastly. Of course there were clocks, those big, modern, minimalist ones that were nothing more than a large white circle with two hands making their way around silently. Numbers were a thing of the past. Even tasteful roman numerals were out, just a bare clock face with the hands moving smoothly, not even giving a homely ‘tick’. It was enough to make one’s skin crawl, it was.

Whatever time those clock kept, it didn’t match up to Earth’s sun. On one occasion, Aziraphale had been called up for a brief twenty-minute one-on-one bi-centennial. Going from the clock placed in pride of place behind Gabriel’s desk it had taken just short of half an hour but when he’d gotten back down to London Aziraphale had been dismayed to realize nearly an entire month had passed. But then on a separate occasion, Aziraphale had been stuck Upstairs for five entire months, only to hurry back to his bookshop and find only five days had gone by in his absence. 

Knowing it would do little, Aziraphale pulled out his pocket watch. It was silent as it always when he was Up Here. Stopped at a quarter past five in the morning, when he has surfaced from the depths of Hell. With a careful controlled exhale he tucked it back into his poor tattered waistcoat.

The steady sound of his footsteps against cool tile were the only sound as he walked. And walked. And walked. Eventually his corporation informed him it had been walking for close to an hour and was dangerously close to overthrowing the central government and having a nice sit-down whether he liked it or not.

Irritation bubbled up within him. Hadn’t he been through enough already? Dante hadn’t been in any true harm on his journey. He certainly hadn’t been vored or poisoned or had to run for his life. Dante hadn’t gotten his nice velvet waistcoat befouled. Enough was enough.

“That’s not quite on,” he said quietly as he walked. “You see, I’ve already _been_ to Heaven*. I’ve seen the Circles more or less.” Under his feet he felt the smooth shiny marble do a strange sort of a twist, the hallway before him widening, expanding. “This isn’t exactly new to me,” he continued steadily. “And I have no guide here. So it’s wrong. The narrative doesn’t match up. You cannot keep me here. Not without a guide. Not without some semblance of progress.”

*And it _sucked_.

The air around him began to change. It felt as if his perspective had been switched from first person to third and he was now looking down on himself, a small speck of colour in so much white. The realization of just how small he really was nearly overcame him, his head rushing with the sudden understanding of the vastness of the spheres and the eternity of space, the celestial heavens whirling overhead in dizzying arcs behind his eyelids humming with the eternal song.

Aziraphale stood still, the hallway around him completely and unnaturally silent. He couldn’t hear his own breath. His face tingled, all of his hair rising. In his mouth his tongue felt thick, a strange static building in his ears, numbing his face. His corporation’s animal instincts demanded he run, hide, escape, while the deep-seated instincts of a Principality demanded something much older, something built into his very design he had nearly forgotten.

All around him was a presence. The Presence. It thrummed under his skin, in the air, resonated in his very soul. In the other plane Aziraphale’s wings spread out, his eyes opening, humming with the ancient song, entirely on instinct. The stark walls around him were gone, replaced with celestial glory – true glory, the stars in their endless dance, galaxies aflame with the divine fire, beautiful. Eternal.

There was the feeling of a sigh. A smile. The tension that had seized him dissipated in a slow bloom. Relaxed. Gentled. 

He felt the faintest sensation of a hand on his back, like a cat being gently nudged, herded. The Presence swept over him in a rush, a hand trailed through still water, a cloak dragging across the grass, caressing every leaf and flower as it past. Then it was gone, nothing more than an echo, a wondrous dream fast fading in the presence of morning.

Aziraphale was aware of taking a breath in. Then another. “Ah,” he said aloud. He placed a shaky hand over his breast. His cheeks were wet. Belatedly he realized the grime and hell-sludge was gone, his clothing mended.

When he looked up he saw a familiar sign not three meters in front of him. ‘Earth Escalators ->’. 

He took it.

Xxx

ACT VI

The escalator ride down to the London Earth Entrance passed by in a strange, hazy blur. Aziraphale placed his hand on the rail lightly, feeling as if he were still floating somewhere up and to the left of his comfortable old corporation. Everything was…it all was too much to process really. 

His encounter with…Her. His long miserable night running about the Infernal Circles. Having a bit of a – er, discussion with those nice angles, one of which had probably tried to do him in. 

Was it wrong for an angel to delight in inspiring awe and a healthy smidge of fear in his fellows? Maybe. Would that stop Aziraphale from enjoying it? No, he didn’t think so. Especially not when someone Up There had it out for him. If they couldn’t take the heat they ought to stay out of the kitchen. His poor beleaguered belly grumbled. Oh, a kitchen. What a beautiful, lovely, miraculous thing.

The shiny marble of the lobby finally came into view. He stumbled only a little as he stepped onto firm ground, terra firma as it were, and made his way zombie-like towards the shiny revolving doors. Earth. _Home_.

It took more effort than it should have to push through the shiny revolving doors, and then he was shuffling outside, feeling the barrier lift, the oppressive limbo-like state of The Tower falling away as a warm summer morning swept over him. The familiar London streets, morning commuters rushing about, the slight fug wafting over from the Thames a familiar and welcome aftertaste in the back of his mouth. It was almost too much.

Dante could keep Heaven. Earth was the real paradise.

It was all catching up to him. He managed to get to the end of the street and turn the corner to be out of view of The Tower’s watchful eyes before he started to shake. Earth was alive all around him, his senses working overtime to take it all in hungrily, the pavement under his feet, a rude word spray-painted onto the side of a building, flowers spilling out of a large planter, the faint notes of bebop coming from a nearby shop. A woman passed by carrying a cappuccino and the smell of it nearly made him swoon with how rich and lovely it was. Oh. It was all too much.

A sleek black Bentley executed a painfully loud U-turn, pulling up right beside him, a barrage of honking and aggravated shouting in its wake. The passenger door sprung open mere inches away from where he stood. 

“Get _in_ angel. We’re doing brunch.”

And here Aziraphale had his own beloved to guide him into the mundane bliss of a weekday morning in London.

He laughed wetly, climbing into the car, Crowley pulling him inside. The door shut snugly behind him. They just held each other for a few long breathless moments, breathing each other in, awkwardly jumbled together across the Bentley’s seats.

“It’s far too early for brunch, my dear,” the angel eventually managed, muffled into Crowley’s chest.

“Mngk. Bollocks t’ that. Brunch menu has all the best booze.”

“Oh, _yes_.”

“Come on. Get you some crepes, eggs florentine, the full English. Whatever you like. Some whipped cream monstrosity with half a bottle of kahlua slipped in. A nice little booth where we can have a nice little meltdown, what do you say?”

“Oh, my dear. _Please_.”

Xxx

Aziraphale soon found himself snuggled into a booth at one of his favourite breakfast haunts, never so glad to be met with run down, flaking cushions and slightly greasy tables. Their waiter was giving them dirty looks for pilling in together on the same side of the booth and all but sitting in each other’s laps, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care.

Crowley was clinging to him like a particularly possessive snake, always keeping a line of physical contact between them at all times be it a hand, a leg, or the entire left side of his body. Aziraphale was feeling rather clingy himself and was more than happy to hold and be held in return. He knew he ought to put up some kind of a fuss about proper public conduct but honesty he’d had a wretched long night and was rather beyond caring at this point.

Their waiter, a gruff man named Harris, was indeed giving them the stink-eye for improper conduct, as well as for the steady stream of alcoholic beverages the two had been ordering, finding himself physically unable to tell them spirits weren’t bloody well served at 7:30 in the am. He’d just nodded and even smiled without wanting to before slinking back to the kitchen with his notepad. And it kept happening again and again, increasingly bewildered baristas handing him drinks for the odd couple before he’d even had a chance to relay the order. 

Then there was the way the skinny goth kept feeding everything to the soft pastel one, both with expressions so soppy it made you itch for a wet floor sign. Harris had nothing against two blokes being together, but shameless PDA of any kind before the coffee had set in was simply one step too far. 

He hadn’t noticed that the world felt just a little lighter, the air had turned just bit clearer, or that a pair of honest to goodness turtledoves had nestled above the shop sign cooing to each other. He would be surprised some hours later to notice that a cluster of tulips had sprouted right out of the pavement by the window, never mind there hadn’t been so much as a crack in it the day before.

Harris stopped by their booth, quite sure he’d meant to steer clear of it but here he was, yet again, the third time in the last half hour. “Anything else for you gents?” He heard himself say.

“Ah, yes! One more Monte Cristo if you please, there’s a dear chappie,” oozed the soft one, making a halfhearted and quickly abandoned attempt to sit up straight and not be shamelessly snuggled into his partner’s side. The goth pulled him closer, lazily looking up at Harris and giving a shark’s smile.

“We’ll have another round of taters and a bowl of maraschino cherries, yeah? And get me another vodka and tonic!”

Off Harris went.

“Oh, we mustn’t pick on the poor man,” said Aziraphale with absolutely no conviction. He didn’t want to ruin Crowley’s fun. 

“Oh musssn’t we?”

“Well. We’ll have to tip him handsomely for his troubles anyway!” he said, quite certain he’d forget but knowing full well Crowley would do so for him anyway.

“Feeling better?” asked Crowley quietly, arm steady around him.

Aziraphale sighed, relaxing back in his seat. He dabbed at his mouth daintily with a napkin. “Very much so. I can’t tell you how badly I’ve been dying for bite to eat.”

Crowley made a sympathetic sound. “My poor angel. Dragged all over Hell without being offered a single meal.”

“It is a bit rude, rather!”

“You wouldn’t want what they have to offer, trust me.”

Harris swung around with their order, Crowley giving him a wonky salute and a wink as he left. The demon plucked up one of the cherries, turning it this way and that like a cat playing with its food.

“I wonder what kinds of rumors will be going around,” wondered Aziraphale.

“Hmm?” Crowley popped the cherry in his mouth, swallowing it whole.

“We did make rather a scene down there.” The angel helped himself to some fried potato. It was warm and greasy and exactly what he had been craving. He gave a happy little wiggle.

“Serves them right the bastards.” Crowley tugged Aziraphale just a bit closer. “You think they recognized me at all?”

“Not a bit, my dear. It was a very good disguise!”

Crowley grinned. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“Oh! Oh, I never!” Crowley had the gall to snigger at him. The angel huffed. “My disguises are _perfectly_ um-” he floundered around for the right word “-perfectly thought out and designed, _thank_ you.”

“Sure they are, sure they are. Just like the ones you see at a school play.”

“Oh! Well, excuse me for take time and effort to, to _craft_ the perfect visage!” He smacked Crowley lightly on the arm. The demon stuck his long forked tongue, a knotted cherry steam resting on top. 

Aziraphale gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’d been wondering what you wanted with those. Yes, yes, you’re very talented.”

“’S fun.” Crowley spat the stem over the back of the booth behind them.

“ _Crowley!_ ”

“What? Here, have a go.” He nudged the bowl of sugary sweet cherries at Aziraphale.

“Very tempting.” The angel picked one out of the bowl, turning it over in his fingers pensively. “I hope I did the right thing telling them Upstairs about the seraph.”

Crowley had just popped another cherry in his mouth and promptly choked on it. “Mmnggk!”

“Really my dear. What did you expect playing with the thing like that? Evil contains the seeds of it’s own destruction, as I always say.” He gave a prim little nod.

“No no, what – you said – what?” Aziraphale was smirking just there at the corner of his mouth, the bastard. “You told them it was me?”

“Of course not!” Crowley picked up his vodka and tonic and downed it all in one long gulp. “I told them _a_ seraph came down to save me,” continued Aziraphale.

To his credit, Crowley didn’t spit out his drink. It was a close thing though.

“Bless you,” said Aziraphale, not bothering to hide his grin. “I didn’t get their name though, silly me. And of course the party that met me upstairs were more than happy to take the credit for my rescue, once I’d explained what happened and thanked them for sending the chap down.”

“Wait wait wait! So they - Heaven _and_ Hell - think there’s some rogue seraph running around? One that’s not afraid to dive into Hell if you’re in danger?”

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Isn’t there?” he asked quietly. Crowley gave a loud bark of laughter. He took Aziraphale’s hand and held it tenderly. 

“Of course there is, angel. Always.” Aziraphale ducked his head, so full of love he was glowing with it.

“Oh _Haaris!_ ” called Crowley obnoxiously, waving his empty glass. “One more time!” They could hear the man groaning all the way across the room.

Aziraphale giggled helplessly into the demon’s bony shoulder. “Oh you incorrigible thing, you.”

Crowley ginned down at him, glasses halfway down his nose, his beautiful eyes peering over top. “That’sss me. Come on. I’ll get the bill and we’ll head back to the bookshop. Have a nice bath, hmm?”

“Oh, that would be just lovely. I’ll have to move up my manicure. Raha will understand once she sees the state of my poor nails.”

“I’m sure she will. Anything you want to bring home? I’m sure old Harris won’t mind us getting dessert to go”

Aziraphale lent his head back against Crowley’s arm, felt the steady warmth of it, every hard bony line of him thrumming with protection, with love. The booth under him was worn and squeaky, the pale ceiling in desperate need of a good clean. Outside was London, the familiar city bustling on as it always had, the Earth turning around and around, full of humans, full of light and sound and colour and _love_.

Celestial harmony was a well enough ending to aspire to for some. Dante could end his tale with his beloved Beatrice, ascending to the very highest of all the Heavenly Spheres. If that was his bliss, well. More power to him, as the youth would say. 

Aziraphale’s paradise had always been and would always be right here on Earth with his very own beloved demon at his side to experience the messy wonder of it all with him.

The angel smiled, tipsy and full from the meal, warmed all the way through. “Let’s take the cherries.” 

Crowley’s rough laughter was a dearer sound than all of the heavenly choirs combined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with this! And apologies to Dante for riffing off of his work ;)


End file.
